Trefoil
by AWomanInvisible
Summary: To his surprise he found himself loved. Not just by one, but by two of the most amazing people he had ever known. With cases to work on, criminals to chase and a new DI to break in, Sherlock found himself to be ... content. (Follows Birth & Watersheds-read those first to understand the demiromantic/biromantic/heteroromantic relationship. Canon divergent AU. Not BBC Mary)
1. The Prologue

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, but am eternally grateful for the genius of ACD and now MG, SM, BC, MF and the BBC crew.**

**I have no experience with asexuality, but have researched the subject on the internet. I apologise if I have got anything wrong. Any errors are for the sake of the story and not to cause offence.**

**Similarly, I am not an expert in most of the things I use in this story, just what I picked up from the interweb and my own imagination. As this is an AU I'm excusing any failures in authenticity as "well that's what happens in my universe." A cheap get out I know, but these are my scribblings and they make me happy.**

**If you wish to comment, I would love to hear from you.**

**Don't forget to follow me on tumblr**

**Trigger warnings: Be aware, there are mentions of brutal murder, a memory of death in Afghanistan, depression, angst, kidnapping, and crime scenes throughout. The background story centres around a child sex trafficking ring and the investigation to bring them down. There are mentions of child abuse and homelessness. None of the child abuse or sex trafficking scenes are graphic or detailed.  
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* * *

He couldn't tell precisely what had caused goosebumps on his flesh and his heart rate to rise. As he paused on the threshold of the flat some disturbance in its atmosphere had caused him to become suddenly alert. Uncertain of what awaited him and unwilling to tip his hand he reached into his pocket for his mobile, feigning a text message as he assessed the evidence of an intruder.

Sherlock had been the last person to leave 221B that day. Mary and John had both left for work that morning, John for his shift at University College Hospital A&amp;E and Mary for her lectures at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. Neither was expected back until early evening. Sherlock had left in late morning, first to catch up with his homeless network and then to visit Molly at Barts to collect some tissue samples for his latest experiments.

Standing on the threshold of their flat Sherlock surreptitiously studied the carpet in the door way. Faint indentations from work boots had crushed the fibre. So, someone had entered the flat.

Still appearing to study his phone Sherlock let out an exasperated hiss then turned on his heel and stomped down the stairs towards Flat A, bellowing for Mrs Hudson. As he descended in a swirl of Belstaff and annoyance his eyes scanned the hallway looking for any disturbance, any clue, any sign of the intruder's intent.

Above the front door, tucked into the corner under the fanlight Sherlock spotted a tiny camera. Now he knew what he was looking for he marched to Mrs Hudson's door and knocked.

Looking flustered, his landlady opened her door, wiping her floury hands on her apron, removing the remains of her latest batch of baking.

"What is it Sherlock?" Her annoyance at his demanding bellows was obvious in her voice and the tight pinch of her mouth and around her eyes. "I could hear you shouting down the stairs. What's the matter?"

With a look of fond exasperation he took her shoulders and eased her gently backwards into her flat, kicking her front door shut behind him.

* * *

**Authors Notes:**

**So you know, based upon the outcome of my previous story, Watersheds, I did some digging on how I see my characters identifying, even though, as John says, "I soon learned that the labels were actually pretty meaningless. I am John Hamish Watson and I am who I am."**

**In the story, John identifies himself as biromantic – the romantic aspect of bisexuality.**

**Based on John's diagnosis, which Sherlock agrees with, Sherlock identifies as demiromantic - he may feel romantic attraction once a reasonably stable or strong emotional connection has been created. However he hates to be touched by those he has no romantic attraction to except by the very few he has an established strong emotional connection with. This includes Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Although his main area of casual interest in the past has been men, he now includes Mary in his sphere of romantic attraction.**

**Throughout the story Mary identifies herself as asexual or under more recent definitions, largely heteroromantic - "If you were to ask on the Kinsey scale I'm probably about a 2. I'm predominantly interested in men, but can be attracted to a woman. I have no interest in sexual intercourse."**

**As I said, I have no actual experience with this and have based this on internet research, but this is how I want my characters to be for the purposes of this story arc. If I've got anything badly wrong then please let me know. Any and all comments and constructive criticism are welcomed. Many thanks.**


	2. After the Wedding

**Author's Note: events immediately following the last chapter of 'Watersheds' (s/9616904/1/Watersheds)**

* * *

The wedding had been exhilarating and, at the same time, overwhelming. When John and Mary had turned away to dance and mingle with their guests, Sherlock had taken the opportunity to withdraw quietly. The cool evening air and walk back to the main road allowed him to start settling his mind. The people, chatter, loud music and flashing lights were all too much. When combined with the turmoil of emotions Sherlock's mind was beginning to spiral uncomfortably. He needed peace to process all the data. He needed home.

Reaching the main road, he began walking towards London. A call to a local taxi company secured a cab. Ten minutes later the headlights of an approaching car, followed by two swift blasts on the horn signalled the arrival of his transportation. Forty five minutes later the cab pulled up outside 221B Baker Street.

It was barely ten o'clock when Sherlock let himself into Flat B, hung up his coat and scarf and made his way to his bedroom. His suit was hung up, the buttonhole carefully removed and placed tenderly on his dressing table next to his phone, wallet, watch and coin tray. His dress shoes were tucked away in the bottom of his wardrobe. Underwear was stripped and deposited, along with his dress shirt, in the laundry basket. Sherlock opened the door from his bedroom into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting it get up to heat.

The torrent of water over his head and shoulders began to massage out the tensions that had accumulated throughout the day. The ritual of his evening ablutions calmed his mind further, the gentle massaging of shampoo and then conditioner into his scalp easing the threatening headache. Within thirty minutes he was stretched out on the sofa dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown, hands crossed on his chest, his mind now relaxed enough to allow him to review the reception hall of his mind palace where today's accumulated data awaited processing.

By the time the newly married John and Mary Watson returned to the flat at 11:37 armed with a magnum of champagne and a data stick of photos and videos of the day, all courtesy of Mycroft, Sherlock was ready to face this new phase of his life: sharing a home with a married couple. John giggled as he struggled to carry a slightly tipsy and joyful Mary over the threshold into Flat B, the flowing lace of her dress wrapping between his legs and threatening to trip them both.

"Excellent, you're home. I trust you've had a wonderful evening." Laughter and joyful faces answered his question to his satisfaction. "Go and get ready for bed. I'll get the tea on."

Mary stepped forward clasping Sherlock's hand whilst John threw his arms around his best friend's shoulders in a gleeful hug. "Sherlock, you are a wonder. Give us twenty minutes or so to get out of these togs and we'll be back. A snuggle on the sofa and a cup of tea sounds the perfect way to round off this wonderful day, don't you think."

Sherlock's lips twitched into an affectionate smile as his two loves made their way up the stairs to their bedroom. He placed the now warm bottle of champagne in the fridge and plugged his laptop into the telly so that they could benefit from the larger screen. He was just fishing the teabags out of the three mugs when John came back downstairs, also in pyjamas and dressing gown.

The glowing man walked over to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around his love, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock's neck.

"It was a wonderful day. We were both so happy you could share it with us." A hand reached up to ruffle Sherlock's hair, stroking fondly through soft curls. "Have you filed away everything in your mind palace now?"

Sherlock sighed as his eyes fluttered closed at the gentle pressure on his scalp. A soft hum answered John's question.

"Oh, this is what I like to see. My two favourite men canoodling. And I believe that I am owed a waltz." Mary had entered the room, wrapped in a dressing down of ivory silk and waving the CD Sherlock had made for them. As John made to pull away to allow Mary her dance with Sherlock, Mary raised a hand. "No John, stay where you are. I'll just pop this in the lappy so you and Sherlock can dance properly. That is the dance I want to see. And as it's my wedding day I believe my wish is your command."

Mary sat on the sofa, her arms wrapped around her folded legs, knees tucked under her chin, hands stroking the ivory silk of her pyjama trousers and smiled affectionately at her two beloveds as they waltzed to Sherlock's beautiful composition. Both men looked enraptured as they gazed into each other's eyes. When the music came to a close, Mary let out a gentle sigh and rose from her seat to join the men in a warm embrace.

A minute later the trio broke apart as Mary led them by the hand to the sofa. They curled together to drink tea, watch images of the celebrations and laugh as they shared anecdotes, observations and impressions, consolidating their memories of a beautiful day.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

So you know, based upon the outcome of my previous story, 'Watersheds', I did some digging on how I see my characters identifying, even though, as John says, "I soon learned that the labels were actually pretty meaningless. I am John Hamish Watson and I am who I am."

In the story, John identifies himself as biromantic – the romantic aspect of bisexuality.

Based on John's diagnosis, which Sherlock agrees with, Sherlock identifies as demiromantic - he may feel romantic attraction once a reasonably stable or strong emotional connection has been created. However he hates to be touched by those he has no romantic attraction to except by the very few he has an established strong emotional connection with. This includes Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Although his main area of casual interest in the past has been men, he now includes Mary in his sphere of romantic attraction.

Throughout the story Mary identifies herself as asexual or under more recent definitions, largely heteroromantic - "If you were to ask on the Kinsey scale I'm probably about a 2. I'm predominantly interested in men, but can be attracted to a woman. I have no interest in sexual intercourse."

As I said, I have no actual experience with this and have based this on internet research, but this is how I want my characters to be for the purposes of this story arc. If I've got anything badly wrong then please let me know. Any and all comments and constructive criticism are welcomed. Many thanks.


	3. Honeymoon for three

John rested his chin on his hand as he watched the flat plains of the French countryside fly past the window at 180 miles per hour, the skyline broken occasionally by a blur of village, farm or copse of trees. Mary sat beside him reading the latest Lindsey Davis novel she'd picked up at WH Smiths in St Pancras station. She had kicked off her shoes and was rubbing the arch of her foot against John's leg in a gently soothing rhythm.

Sherlock sat opposite John, his nose buried in a Victorian text documenting tropical diseases that Mary had managed to borrow from the library at work. He was currently studying with some relish a graphic and somewhat gruesome pen and ink illustration of an infestation of guinea worm.

They had chosen to take the Eurostar to Paris rather than fly as the check in was less traumatic and the chance of Sherlock becoming bored diminished greatly with his ability to roam the train, deducing the other travellers as he went. He had learned to keep his mouth firmly shut so as not to cause a riot, but even so it helped to pass the time. He'd also managed to snap a picture of an absconding embezzler, which he'd texted to Lestrade to pass on to the investigating detective.

Sherlock had insisted on first class as the seats were larger and passengers fewer and, in his words, moderately less raucous. He'd also booked a champagne breakfast hamper to be delivered to the train for their journey. They'd gorged on smoked salmon bagels, croissants with butter and an assortment of jams, an exotic fruit platter, varied cold meats and cheeses, a selection of breads and rolls, and a bottle of champagne. Even Sherlock had nibbled the contents of the hamper and now declared himself replete.

Mycroft had booked the hotel for the honeymoon. He had arranged adjoining rooms in an incredibly exclusive bistro hotel on the Rue de Rivoli. A limousine awaited them at the Gare du Nord to transfer them to the hotel. The staff were friendly, efficient and politely deferential. Check in was dealt with in short order and they were soon shown to their rooms by a bellboy.

John and Mary's room was entered first. Mary gasped at the elegant decor and the spectacular view over the Jardins du Tuileries. The bellboy seemed pleased at her cries of joy. "Oh John, this is beautiful." She ran round the room, opening doors. The call of "Oh my god, you have to see this." drew John to her side and an arm round her waist as she gestured excitedly towards the bathroom with its large bath, and walk in shower. John knew she was already picturing a luxurious bubble bath with either John or Sherlock massaging the accumulated tension from her shoulders.

Leaving Mary to explore the room, John moved over to the other wall and its locked door. Hearing Sherlock's baritone beyond the door dismissing the bellboy, John unlocked his side and knocked gently. Moments later Sherlock unlocked his side and opened the door.

"Sherlock, much as I hate to say it, Mycroft has excelled himself. This room is beautiful." Sherlock grimaced at the mention of Mycroft but could not help but smile as Mary made yet another delighted circuit of the room, twirling and grinning before collapsing backwards onto the plush king size bed with an ecstatic sigh.

-0-0-0-

They had seven days to explore Paris, a city John had never visited and Mary had spent three days in on a school coach trip when she was 10. Seven days for Sherlock to impart some of his sentiment for the city so much a part of his childhood.

Each day began with breakfast in the hotel while they planned their day. For this one week Sherlock managed to suppress his abhorrence of all things mundane to guide his partners around the city that he knew so well.

He had spent a week every summer until he was fourteen visiting Paris with his Grand-mère Véronique as part of his month long stay in her manoir nestled in the countryside outside St Germain de Lusignan. She insisted that running round the countryside like a vagabond getting into scrapes and disturbing the wildlife (or conducting experiments as the juvenile Holmes had whined whilst being mercilessly scrubbed clean in the bathtub by his Grand-mère's monstrous housekeeper, Madame Chevallier) needed to be tempered with the civilising influence of the Capital. So for one week each summer he stayed with his Grand-mère in the elegant apartment of one of her dearest friends, on the Place des Vosges.

Sherlock spent that week in restricting suits, hair combed and face washed on his absolute best behaviour as his Grand-mère took him to museums, palaces, churches and cathedrals. Every evening they dined in luxury on the finest cuisine Paris had to offer before journeying to a classical concert, the ballet or the opera. Sherlock was exposed to the history and culture of the French capital whilst enjoying the company of his beloved Grand-mère and, despite everything, he loved it.

Even the six weeks he had endured there in his deconstruction of Moriarty's web, living on the streets and surviving on little more than scraps whilst pursuing and being pursued by some of the most odious criminals he had ever encountered could not tarnish his love of the city. The memories of his Grand-mère had sustained him on many a cold night as he had huddled under a bridge or tucked himself between the bins behind the Opera.

It was only since meeting John and then going through the hell of his twenty eight months away that Sherlock had come to realise just how many things in his life he cared deeply about, even loved. He'd realised in his mid-teens that he did not feel attraction as other boys did. Very few of his family, acquaintances or possessions were of any consequence to him. His Grand-mère, dog Redbeard and his violin were the only constants in his life that truely meant anything.

Then in the spring of his fifteenth year his Grand-mère had succumbed to a stroke and Redbeard had to be put down after being shot by a poacher. In that summer he played his violin incessantly and during grief therapy was maliciously diagnosed as a sociopath by the pathetic excuse for a psychiatrist in revenge for Sherlock disclosing his emotional abuse of his two young sons. After the diagnosis people, even his own family, tended to leave him alone, fearful of what the sociopath would do if aggravated. Sherlock took the diagnosis to his heart and worked it for all he was worth just to get everyone to leave him alone.

Only the arrival of John in his life made him realise how much he had sold himself short. John had not accepted the high-functioning sociopath label almost from the start. And as their platonic relationship blossomed, Sherlock came to realise just how lonely he had been and how much heneeded to care not just about his work, but his colleagues, his friends and his life. 'Caring is not an advantage' no longer worked for him. Yes, caring caused him pain and made him vulnerable, but it also gave him strength he never knew he possessed. Strength to let John into his heart, strength to do what was needed to protect three important people, strength to ask Mycroft and Molly for help and strength enough to survive almost three years of hell.

And now here he was, with two people he loved with all his heart in the city he had come to think of as his mistress. Paris thrilled and titillated him, bringing a spring to his step and a smile to his face. The expectation of visiting was enough to cause a frisson to course through his body. But if Paris was his metropolitan mistress then London was his dominatrix. He was addicted to London, always returning to bear every beating and punishment, trusting that she would ultimately lave, calm and soothe those hurts. He knew that, when he returned to Baker Street, his city would punish him for this dalliance to reassert possession of her favoured son, but would ultimately comfort and forgive him, as always.

-0-0-0-

So, every day, Sherlock guided the honeymooners around the city, imparting history and folk-lore, tales of murder, mayhem and revolution, better than any tour guide. The smile on his face told its own story of just how much enjoyment he had from showing the two dearest people in the world to him the city so adored by his Grand-mère.

On the day John and Mary spent a delightful day doing the tourist thing visiting the Château de Versailles, Sherlock took advantage of an offer from Greg Lestrade. He had contacted a colleague at the Police Nationale to arrange for Sherlock to spend the day reviewing some of their cold case files. By the time John texted to say he and Mary were back at the hotel, Sherlock had solved eleven cases and identified new avenues of investigation for nine more.

Each evening was spent sampling the delights of the city from a pavement cafe in Montmatre, to the fine dining available in Michelin starred restaurants. Both Sherlock and John had been surprised that Mary adored the works of Debussy, so one evening was spent listening to a recital by an exceptional group of music students from the Conservatoire de Paris whilst another evening was spent enjoying vibrant folk music in a bar in the Latin Quarter.

And every evening they returned to their rooms to wind down. John would sit on the sofa and read, whilst Sherlock would rest his head on John's lap, John's fingers combing through his curls. Mary preferred to sit next to John, her legs curled up beside her and her hand rubbing gentle patterns on his thigh as she would either read or gently rest her head on his shoulder. Finally they would retire to their respective beds, the door between the rooms remaining open. As happened at home, sometimes they would wake up in their separate rooms or, if Sherlock had suffered nightmares or had heard either John or Mary in distress, they would wake all together in John and Mary's bed. All three of them had witnessed horrors in their lives, and it was not uncommon for nightmares to disturb the sleep of at least one of the partners.

Their week ended too soon, but the final day was a relief none the less. Having packed their bags and handed them to the safe keeping of the concierge, they strolled in the morning sunshine from their hotel to enjoy a sumptuous brunch at Café Crème on the Rue Dupetit-Thouars.

Returning to their hotel, they collected their luggage and took a taxi to the Gare du Nord. The return journey was quiet but each of the lovers tingled with the expectation of returning home to 221B Baker Street and the life they were building for themselves.


	4. Mrs Hudson

**Explaining love without sex to Mrs Hudson is not fun. Sherlock realises how incredibly lucky he is.**

* * *

Upon returning to Baker Street in the early evening, they were greeted by an enthusiastic Mrs Hudson who fussed and fluttered around Mary and Sherlock as John manhandled their luggage up the stairs into Flat B.

"Oh, you're home. Was it wonderful? Paris is so beautiful, so romantic. I always think it must be a wonderful place to start a new life." And she gave an almost lascivious wink at Mary. Sherlock saw the wink and Mary's shocked expression. Despite everything, Mrs Hudson still could not quite accept that her upstairs flat was not a hotbed of rampant sex.

Before Mary could sputter out her denials, Sherlock gently guided their landlady back towards her own flat. "Mrs Hudson, we're all quite tired and would like to relax and tidy ourselves up. I know you're not our housekeeper but I can smell that you've been baking, blueberry muffins if I'm not mistaken. If you have a few left over we would love to sample them."

"Oh Sherlock, of course I have some extra. I'll bring them up in a minute. And I have your post here as well. Go on, upstairs with you both, and don't mind me Mary dear. Now, up you go."

Shooing them towards the stairs she returned to her flat to sort out muffins and post.

Entering the flat, Mary let out an uncomfortable sigh, her shoulders slumping. Returning to the sitting room, John saw Mary's distress and moved forward, a questioning look passing from Mary to Sherlock.

"Mary love, what happened?"

Sherlock answered whilst Mary struggled and failed to calm herself. "Unfortunately Mrs Hudson happened. Started on about procreation again."

John grunted and shook his head in disbelief. "I don't get it. I tell her every time she brings up the possibility of Mary and I moving out that we're quite happy here and don't need any more room."

Sitting down on the sofa with her head in her hands, elbows resting on her knees, Mary let out an upset huff as tears began to sting her eyes. "It's just like my mother all over again. She couldn't understand either and I'm so tired of people making assumptions about me. I don't want to have to justify who I am, but as a woman, and now a married woman, everyone assumes that the next step is babies, even if that's not what I want, or have ever wanted."

John sat next to his wife and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "I know love. I know it's horrible to have to justify ourselves to people, but it's worse when the ones we love just won't understand."

Mary lifted her head and wiped tears from her eyes. "It's so stupid!" She spat out in angry frustration. "I'm asexual. But no matter how often I tried to explain to my mum she always said I just hadn't met the right man. Like I was making a choice or trying to punish her in some way when I told her I'd never have children. She caught me kissing a boy goodnight after a date and was cock-a-hoop because I was fixed. I'm not fucking broken, I'm not incapable of love, I just don't want sex! Why is that so difficult to understand?"

Mary's anguished cry was thrown into the ether. John tightened his hold on her as she turned her face into his shoulder to bury her bitter sobs, and Sherlock stepped forward to offer what solace he could.

A hurt gasp came from the kitchen.

As the drama had unfolded in the sitting room, Mrs Hudson had arrived in the kitchen with a plate of muffins and a bundle of post, unheeded by the emotional residents of the flat. She heard Mary's anguish and realised that her unguarded comments had caused this pain.

Mrs Hudson was a caring woman who had never been able to have a family of her own. Her husband had always insisted that pregnancy would ruin her body and she would no longer be able to dance for his clients, after all who wanted to watch an exotic dancer with 'saggy tits and stretch marks' he'd said whenever she raised the matter. The one time she had fallen pregnant he'd dragged her along to one of his associates, a doctor, who sorted out her 'little problem'. After he'd been arrested and executed for multiple homicides in Florida, she had sighed with relief and returned to London, hoping to meet a nice man hopefully with children of his own who she could love. Unfortunately, she hadn't realised that her husband had inflicted more damage on her than she knew. His persistent abuse left her untrusting of most men making any form of intimacy almost impossible for her.

Faced with the prospect of no family of her own, she had for a few years, become a pram stalking, pregnancy bump rubbing, baby cheek pinching mad woman. It was only when she had nearly been assaulted by a young woman in Woolworths that she realised just how desperate she had become. The poor girl was heavily pregnant and Mrs Hudson had been drawn to the gravid stomach like a moth to the flame. The girl had slapped her reaching hand away and screamed "Don't touch me you fucking psycho!"

A humiliated Martha Hudson had leapt away in shame and had left the shop, head bowed and face red, tears streaming down her cheeks. A visit to her GP had resulted in a diagnosis of depression, three years of anti-depressants and a course of psychiatric treatment to deal with the fall-out from her disastrous marriage.

When the young man who had ended her marriage and her husband had approached her in search of lodgings, she had, of course offered him a deal on her upstairs flat. After all, without him she would never have been able to spirit away enough of her husband's money to give her a comfortable life in London. She hadn't wanted to touch it, but Sherlock had convinced her that it was really her money. She'd earned it the hard way entertaining her husband's clients, and deserved to take anything she could from her years of hell and abuse. She'd argued that it was dirty money, coming from crime, but Sherlock had convinced her that putting it to good use in London was far better than it sitting in a police evidence locker in Florida whilst she struggled to earn a living.

She had taken to Sherlock from the first, when he started working as a plate washer in the kitchen of her husband's club. She wasn't a stupid woman and had quickly realised that the rude boy who hated to be touched was really a lot smarter than he claimed to be. When he'd found her in tears in her pokey dressing room after her husband had humiliated her and dragged her from the club floor by her hair in front of a room full of punters, he'd offered her a way out and a promise of a better life if she would help him bring her husband down. Her trust had not been misplaced. The lanky boy had done everything he'd promised and more. She leapt at the chance to repay him properly by offering him a home, and then, in short order, Sherlock had brought home the damaged soldier and suddenly she had two boys to care for.

And care for them she did. Despite their ridiculous hours, the violin playing, the shouting and shot walls, and of course the endless stream of police officers and clients in and out of their flat, she'd become very fond of her boys. Being an old romantic at heart, she'd hoped that Sherlock would find the love he so deserved, ideally with his adorable flat mate, but then, against all reason, Sherlock died and John crumbled.

For a few weeks she was sure that she had lost her little family. She kept a close eye on the upstairs flat, sitting pensively in her own flat, her ears straining for sounds of life from her remaining boy. She heard the hours of pacing, was woken on many nights by whimpers and terrified screams, listened once to glass (Sherlock's science equipment?) smashing into the wall, but it was the hours of silence that terrified her the most. She had a horrible feeling of doom when she accompanied John to Sherlock's grave. She dreaded the day she went to Flat B and found that she was too late to save John.

Then, just as suddenly, there was Mary. Mary who comforted John, Mary who spent more and more time at the flat, Mary who said that she was an old friend of John's but was obviously planning on using John's grief to get her claws into him.

Martha was shocked at the wave of anger that passed through her every time she saw Mary with John, and the easy smile that now graced John's face whenever Mary was near. Much as she loved John, she grew increasingly angry with him for his casual dismissal of Sherlock. The way he had begun to rebuild his life with his new girlfriend and his new job at the A&amp;E, and all so soon after Sherlock had gone. She quietly simmered for months until one day she could take no more. Upon his return from an early shift at the hospital, she invited John into her flat for a cup of tea and a chat.

"Mrs Hudson, do you mind if we make this another time? I've had a bit of a day. There was a pile up on the West Way today and we took some of the casualties. It was frantic for a few hours and all I really want to do right now is have a shower and a few hours kip before I see Mary tonight."

"Yes, well, it was Mary I wanted to talk to you about. Don't you think it's a bit quick dear, after Sherlock I mean?"

John looked confused, then hurt and a little angry, before calming down and giving a weak smile.

"Mrs Hudson, please don't worry. Trust me. Mary is helping me keep it together after … you know. She'd kind and caring and good for me. We've been friends since Uni, and she's never been anything but supportive of me. And you know that I'm not gay. He is … was my friend and I miss him, but I have always liked women, you know that. Please don't let your anger at Sherlock colour your opinion of Mary. I'm sure that, if he were here he would like her. And I know if you got to know her you'd like her too. Hey, how about we go out for tea, the three of us, and you get to meet her properly?"

"Oh John, I'm sorry. It's none of my business who you date. And you're right, I am angry at Sherlock for being so selfish. He hurt all of us with his selfishness."

John looked pained and leant forwards to gently take Mrs Hudson's hands. "No, no. I don't believe he was selfish. I think he was put in an untenable situation by an evil man and did the only thing he could to protect people he cared about. Please don't think badly of him. If there had been any other way I'm sure he would have taken it. He'd never hurt you if he could help it, you know that."

"Yes John, I'm sure you're right. And you're right about Mary too. You need to move on with someone who cares for you. You deserve some happiness after all the pain you've seen. Of course I'll meet her. You sort it out and let me know."

John looked relieved and allowed himself a more genuine smile. "I'll book a table at Brown's Hotel for afternoon tea."

He embraced his landlady and surrogate mother in quiet relief, before taking his leave to shower and rest.

It was over that tea that Mrs Hudson accepted Mary. She was a lovely girl if somewhat self-contained and aloof. She didn't seem as open and demonstrative as John's previous girlfriends, but then, she'd lasted longer than any of them, and the way her eyes lit up when she looked at John caused Martha's heart to melt. The afternoon tea was delicious and, by the end, Martha was keeping her fingers crossed that this time John's relationship would work.

When Mary moved in to Flat B six months later, Martha was delighted. With Mrs Turner's prompting, she began hoping for the day when John told her that they were expecting. After all, neither John nor Mary were getting any younger and they would make lovely parents. She had got a little over excited once and suggested that they should move into the lower room so the upstairs bedroom could be a nursery. She'd got a strange look from John at that and was told quite firmly that that would not be necessary.

But still, she could still hope that one day she would be a grandmother, sort of.

But now, hearing Mary's angry ranting and tearful sobs, Martha Hudson realised just how wrong she had been. Her hands flew to her mouth as her eyes went wide with horror at the pain her careless comments and selfish desires had caused. She ran towards the couple on the sofa, falling to her knees before the anguished couple (her hip would hate her for that later).

"Oh my dears, I'm so sorry. Don't cry, I'm sorry. Please forgive a silly old woman, I didn't mean to upset you. Oh, I'm so sorry."

Sherlock stepped forward and eased the older lady to her feet and helped her over to John's armchair, leaving John to sooth the still tearful Mary.

"Mrs Hudson, I think maybe I should explain while John and Mary get themselves together. Do you understand what being asexual is?"

"Not really. I mean, I've heard the word on one of these wildlife documentaries but I though it applied to worms or something."

"It does in the animal kingdom, but humans can be asexual as well. But for us it means that we have no interest in sexual intercourse. Do you understand?"

"I think so. Like Catholic priests and nuns."

"Kind of, except in their case it is a conscious decision and is called celibacy. Asexuality is biological, something you are born as, just like homosexuality or heterosexuality. It's not a conscious decision or a lifestyle choice, it's just the way we are."

"Oh I see. Wait, you said we. Does that mean that you're … "

"Asexual? Yes, well sort of. It doesn't mean that we can't love or enjoy a romantic attraction to others, it's just that we don't like to be touched sexually."

"Alright. I understand. I think. So Mary is asexual and so are you? But what about poor John?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes realising that he was going to have to explain their relationship to their landlady to avoid future awkward questions and upsetting misunderstandings. Secretly hoping John and Mary would forgive him, he took a deep breath and began.

"Let me explain. As you know John and Mary are married. And I am in a romantic relationship with both of them."

Sherlock paused awaiting the outburst, but all he saw was a look of shining joy in his landlady's eyes before she waved her hand at him to encourage him to keep speaking.

"As you know I don't like being touched by many people, accept a few I have a close emotional bond to. This includes John, Mary, yourself and to a limited extent, DI Lestrade. I am attracted to men, but not in a sexual way. But I am romantically involved with both John and Mary. We cuddle and kiss and occasionally share a bed when one of us needs comfort. John met Mary at University … "

"Yes I know. Mary told me they were flatmates for years and she helped him sort out some problems. But they were just friends for years until they met up again."

"Yes, this is the case. Mary is also attracted to men and is also asexual. So no, there won't be any babies. But like all of us, she hates it when people force their own preconceptions on her. She's suffered it all her life, especially from her own mother who even now asks her when she will present her with grandchildren now she's married. Apparently one of her sisters is a veritable baby machine and is constantly held up to Mary as a role model. As if being a very successful doctor and expert in her field is not enough. Anyway, as you can appreciate, to then hear a similar comment from someone she is very fond of caused a strong reaction."

Mrs Hudson looked so contrite that Sherlock felt a pang of guilt, but she was strong and he knew, once she understood she'd fight tooth and nail for her little family.

"I'm so sorry. I'd never have said anything if I'd understood."

"Now, now Mrs Hudson, no need for tears. It will all be fine, now you understand. It's just our relationship is ours alone and all three of us guard it jealously. We get enough speculation in the press and at the Yard that we simply forgot to explain it properly to you: an unforgivable oversight on our part."

"Oh Sherlock, don't be silly. I should have realised, but I appreciate you're explaining it to me. And of course, my lips are sealed." She paused then as Sherlock watched the gears turn in her brain. He knew what was coming next and braced himself. "But Sherlock, what about John? You said you were in a relationship with both of them and I know he's not gay."

"Ahhh, no he's not gay, as he has reiterated on numerous occasions to anyone who is stupid enough to suggest otherwise. Very clever is our John, because his answer was entirely truthful. He is not gay. However, he is bisexual or more accurately biromantic. Mary helped him realise his asexuality when they flat-shared. It was how they became friends in the first place. It was Mary who helped John hold it together while I was away and between them they worked out, very accurately I must say, that I had survived and why I had to do what I did." Mrs Hudson saw the look of love and pride directed towards the two figures still holding each other on the sofa, and she felt a swell of maternal love for how Sherlock had grown and built a life for himself.

Returning his eyes to his landlady, Sherlock continued as though he had never paused. "I was so lucky when I returned. I only came back because I realised my own carelessness had put John in terrible danger. Mycroft had told me that John was in a serious relationship with Mary, but that they knew that I had survived and were awaiting my return. This news gave me a reason to keep fighting, but I was unsure how I would continue without John. Luckily my loves had already planned everything out as you've subsequently discovered, converting Flat C into my lab and office and preparing to welcome me back with open arms. I will admit, I feared losing John's affection, but like so many before me, I underestimated my blogger. To find two such wonderful people who love and accept me is …" Sherlock swallowed thickly as he again looked towards the sofa, unable to continue as he realised just how much he had gained and just how impossible that should be.

Mrs Hudson touched a hand to her boy's knee, happy tears shining in her eyes. "Thank you, for explaining. I'm so happy you've found two people who care for you so much. Now get over there and hold them. I'll go and put the kettle on for some tea, then I can apologise to Mary properly."

Sherlock smiled as he rose gracefully from his chair and joined his loves on the sofa, Mary instinctively turning her head into his shoulder and including him in their embrace.

While the kettle heated (having checked it was eyeball free), Mrs Hudson peeked round the doorframe and smiled happily as she studied the cuddle pile on the sofa. She would make tea, apologise to her boys and girl, and promise them her love and support.

* * *

**Feedback is much appreciated. If I've got anything badly wrong please let me know**


	5. Boredom and Mycroft

Sherlock contemplates his relationship with Mycroft and the ruse they employed to fool Moriarty, alluded to in 'Watersheds'.

* * *

Sherlock did not have a case of any merit for seventeen interminable days after returning from Paris. He was becoming increasingly fractious as he felt his mind spinning frantically with no new data to work on. He had solved some minor cases over the phone and online. None of them were more than a two. Three he'd solved whilst wrapped in a sheet and one whilst naked having just climbed, dripping, from the shower to answer the phone.

He'd walked into New Scotland Yard two days after their return to announce to the assembled idiots that he was back and available to save their sorry arses. All he got for his pains were silence and blank stares before everyone returned to whatever they were doing before he'd entered the floor in a swirl of Belstaff and fake bonhomie, ignoring him completely. Luckily Lestrade saved his blushes by calling him into his office, but only to invite Sherlock, John and Mary to dinner on Saturday night with himself and Molly.

"So, no case then?"

"No, no case that we need your help with anyway." Noting Sherlock's disheartened expression and complete lack of interest, Lestrade ushered him out of the office and walked with him to the lifts. "I'll keep an eye out for something you can get your teeth into, and I'll have a word with the other DI's in case they have something. I'll text John about the Saturday thing shall I?"

Sherlock perked up slightly. "Saturday?"

"Yeah, the meal. With Molly. And me. I told you, just now."

Sherlock's face closed off again as he lost interest in everything the DI was now saying. As the doors of the lift closed he began to feel the clouds of boredom encroaching on his mind. Lestrade shrugged and returned to his office and his own little slice of bureaucratic tedium.

As the days wore on, Sherlock took to texting Lestrade and Dimmock every few hours. At first he received polite replies, then one word rejections, and finally nothing at all.

He'd been over to the morgue at Bart's to see Molly. She'd been perky at first, hoping to chat to him about Paris, but she soon lost interest when he had no photos on his phone and no interest in discussing the places they'd visited. Unfortunately, she had no samples available for his use. No-one had left their body to science and there were no amputated limbs awaiting disposal. All she had was a fresh gall bladder that had been removed in surgery that morning. It was unremarkable and, as Sherlock prodded it lightly with a scalpel, he couldn't think of a single experiment that would be worth his time. Molly was in mid-sentence when Sherlock turned around and left, only remembering to shout a half-hearted "'bye Molly." over his shoulder as the morgue doors closed behind him.

It was John who finally broke the tedium.

John had already left for his early shift in A&amp;E some hours before, and Mary was just disappearing out of the door, placing a peck on Sherlock's cheek as she collected her handbag and briefcase.

"Go and have a shower darling. It'll use up some time and some scalp massage might stave off that headache I can see beginning." Then she was gone.

Sherlock lifted his head from where it rested on the sofa arm. Mary was right, he could feel a headache forming, probably as much from the uncomfortable hardness of the sofa arm under his neck as from the tedium of his current existence.

Placing his feet on the floor and wrapping his dressing gown around him, he eased himself up and sat, poised to stand as he decided on how he would spend this day. He would, as Mary suggested, have a shower and enjoy massaging conditioner into his scalp. Then he would dress. Next, a check of his email and John's blog to see if any new cases had come in. Perhaps a visit to Mrs Hudson as the smell of fresh baking was making itself known and she always had samples to spare. Then, if all else failed, he would call Mycroft, just to see if his brother had any small job that required his assistance.

Making his way to the bathroom he pondered the relationship with his brother. Before Sherlock's return, John had only ever really seen the fractious, antagonistic act that the brothers had adopted soon after John moved in. When the cabbie, Jefferson Hope, had mentioned his sponsor and Sherlock's fan, and then had refused to name this mysterious figure except with his dying breath, Sherlock realised he was dealing with someone devious and powerful. Once John was tucked away in bed in the early hours of the morning, full of Chinese and an adrenalin crash, Sherlock had texted Mycroft:_everything you have on Moriarty – urgent_

_Diogenes Club 4pm. Will have what we know._

At 4pm on the dot Sherlock emerged from a taxi outside of the Diogenes Club, entering to be shown, silently, to Mycroft's private rooms. As the uniformed valet bowed to leave the room, Mycroft ordered a tray of tea to be delivered. Only once the door was closed, it's seal rendering the room soundproof, did Mycroft gesture to the wingback armchairs by the fireplace. Upon an occasional table next to the left chair rested a file and a usb stick. Mycroft gestured for his brother to take that seat.

"So, Moriarty." Mycroft's opening gambit in any negotiation rarely gave anything away.

Sherlock, picked up the file and perused the pages inside.

"Yes, my fan apparently."

"Ah." Mycroft's carefully controlled features gave nothing away, but his younger brother knew too well that there was deep concern in that simple exclamation.

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of a silver salver bearing a teapot, milk, sugar, and a bone china tea service. Silence reigned between the brothers, the only sound the rustling of the pages Sherlock turned as he digested the information they contained. Once the door shut again with a soft bump, Mycroft looked over at his brother.

"So."

"Yes, so."

"Unfortunately you appear to have attracted the attention of one of the most deadly criminal organisations. The leadership is somewhat nebulous, but increasingly the name 'Moriarty' has been associated with their crimes. It is strange. The organisation seems to have no specific interests, not drugs, people smuggling or prostitution, but seem to be involved in the whole gamut of criminal activities, often liaising with other criminal organisations to achieve their goals. You could say they are a criminal consultancy. The only common denominator is that the crimes are committed in complicated and devious ways, almost like someone is playing with the execution of the crime, one could almost say turning crime into art."

"So, an organisation of consulting criminals."

"Quite. And if you have attracted their attention this will not end well."

"No. And if they have intelligence on me, given the information in this file, I may well become a conduit to you. A totally unacceptable situation. I refuse to be your weakness."

"Yes, I had already discerned that possibility. I have a proposition that may remove myself from the dramatis personae, and without access to me this Moriarty's interest in you may diminish."

Sherlock steepled his fingers on his chin as his brother explained his plan: to exaggerate the perceived animosity in their relationship, using the antagonism to distance Sherlock from Mycroft's influence and protection.

"And what of your new flatmate?"

"He is a trained soldier, and I have no doubt is more than capable of taking care of himself, especially if you arrange a blind spot regarding his Browning. I do not believe he will be a point of pressure as I am renowned for being intolerable. My high functioning sociopath persona will prove useful. And, if you can increase your meddling in my life, we can use John's no doubt negative reaction to you to reinforce the image of antagonism between us."

By the time Sherlock was ready to leave the Diogenes Club, the brothers had devised a plan of action. Before opening the door into the corridor, Mycroft stepped forward and embraced the man in front of him, perhaps for the last time.

"Goodbye brother dear. Forgive my sentiment, but it is not lost on me that this may be the last time we can embrace for quite some time."

"I know brother. It is hateful that we must play this charade." The embrace ended and Sherlock turned to the door ready to commence the first stage of their new reality, and shatter the silence of the Club, breaking one of the golden rules of the Diogenes. With a final smile to his Brother, Sherlock transformed his face into a mask of rage and, as he threw the door open, screamed at his brother "… AND REMOVE YOUR FUCKING BUGS FROM MY FLAT, YOU BLOODY PARASITE!" then he stormed from the club, as the other members stared in silent shock at the passing wraith.

It was not until some years later, when the final part of Moriarty's web was demolished with the arrest of Moran, that Mycroft and Sherlock could acknowledge their previously close relationship. Mycroft was delighted that his brother now had two people in his life who loved and supported him. He accepted Mary and John as his sister and brother-in law, and had no problem accepting their somewhat unusual relationship, because it brought his brother such joy. He revelled in openly being part of his brother's life both domestic and vocational, supplying occasional problems large and small to keep the ennui at bay.

As Sherlock left his bedroom, making final adjustments to the belt in the waistband on his trousers he heard his phone chime where he had left it on the coffee table. The ring tone was John's.

A spike of fear shot through Sherlock as he rushed to the phone. John should be some two hours into his shift at University College Hospital A&amp;E. He rarely texted when on duty, simply not having the time, and it was even more rare for him to initiate communication when he was at work.

Sherlock grabbed the phone up, opening the message from the man who held his heart.

_URGENT – call ASAP. Need your opinion – JW_

That John was asking Sherlock to call was unusual in itself, knowing Sherlock preferred to text.

Sherlock dialled the number immediately, impatient for more information. Almost immediately, John's slightly breathless voice answered his call.

"Sherlock, I need you here now. We've had a girl brought in, high on drugs and eviscerated. It's a bloody mess. She's in surgery now, but her survival is doubtful. DI Panesar thinks it's some sort of Sweeney Todd wanna be, but I'm not so sure. Something is off and I need you to look before the idiots ruin the evidence."

As Sherlock closed the call, promising to be in John's office within twenty minutes, his eyes sparkled and his lips twitched into a smile.

The game was on.


	6. Blood at Luigi's

**A/N: ****Apologies for the delay in getting this chapter up. It was quite complicated to research and write. As you may have gathered, I am in no way a medical professional so any errors are down to my poor research and rubbish info on the interweb. Be warned, it gets a bit gory.**

**At some point in the not too distant future I will reach the events of Chapter 1 and continue the story from there.**

**I'm not quite sure where the next chapter is going to take me. Any comments or suggestions would be appreciated.**

**Thank you for reading.**

**WARNING: blood, crime scene, murder**

* * *

Arriving at UCH just ten minutes later, Sherlock made his way directly to John's office. Opening the door he was greeted by a uniformed constable blocking his way.

"Oh, sorry Sir. Dr Watson said you were coming. This is a right mess." The constable stood aside to allow Sherlock access to the room before again blocking the now closed door.

"Constable Patterson isn't it. You were on the Thompson case. You found the glove in the drain. An excellent piece for observation."

John looked up in surprise at the exchange. It was so unlike Sherlock to treat any of the idiots in the Met with anything but disdain, but he obviously had seen something in this young officer that had piqued his interest. The PC in question was positively glowing with the praise, standing taller and more solidly than ever in front of the door.

And as quickly as it was there, Sherlock's interest in the young man switched off, turning instead to the evidence bags arranged on John's desk.

"Tell me."

John took a deep breath. "Young woman aged between 20 and 25, Mediterranean decent, brought in at 06:24 with major trauma to the abdomen and significant blood loss. Unconscious and tachycardic. Also suffering from an overdose, probably cocaine, later confirmed by blood test. Initial examination showed several incisions on her wrists and hands from a sharp blade, and a vertical incision from the xiphoid process of the sternum to the mons pubis. Her stomach had been dissected. Her intestines, large and small, were almost entirely removed. I cut away her clothing and placed it in evidence bags whilst she was prepared for emergency surgery. Prognosis is …" John paused and took a deep breath, rubbing his hand over his face. "Christ Sherlock, she'll need a bloody miracle to survive what some bastard has done to her, and even if she does live she'll need full medical support for the rest of her days. Her surgeon, Wilson, and his team are the best. But trauma like this, and the blood loss. They'll be lucky to get her stabilised." He shook his head, his eyes on the floor as he felt a great sadness for the girl who had briefly lain in his emergency room.

Sherlock nodded and grasped John's shoulders to acknowledge his distress and give some small measure of comfort even as the data flowed and organised itself in his mind. Releasing his partner and grabbing a pair of surgical gloves John had left in a dispenser on his desk, Sherlock began to examine the victim's clothes under the watchful eye of PC Patterson.

In the bags were bra and knickers, blouse and denim jacket. In another bag a denim skirt. One bag seems to contain blood soaked white towels and, in a separate bag, ankle high cowboy boots in a garish cacophony of colours. Sherlock's hand skimmed over the bags, gently flattening the plastic in places so labels and stains could be seen more easily. Fingers flew over his phone as he searched for manufacturer's names.

"Purse, handbag, phone, passport, ID, anything to identify her?" The question was thrown over his shoulder towards the PC, catching him off guard.

"Er, no sir. Not that I'm aware. DI Panesar is the person to ask about that. She's at the scene at the moment, but should be back within the hour."

"Where was she found?"

"Luigi's sir. The barber's on Drummond Street. Tony Cusano was opening up for the early morning trade at 6 a.m. when he found her in one of the chairs. He grabbed some towels to stem the bleeding while he called for paramedics. It was quite a shock for him, I can tell you."

Sherlock was well aware of Luigi's and had frequented the establishment on many occasions when he felt the need for some indulgence. It was famous as one of the few remaining traditional barber's in London, specialising in luxurious shaves with exquisitely sharp straight razors. If women went to have facials and manicures to feel pampered, the male equivalent was Luigi's.

-0-0-0-

Luigi Cusano had come over from Italy in 1953 as a young man in his early twenties. He needed to escape the confines of his own country and thought London was the place to create new roots. He brought the remains of his family's ancient fortune, such as it was after years of unrest and war, which he placed in the bank and carefully ignored for four years. Having been taught the art of the prefect shave by his father, he took a position as a trainee barber at the newly refurbished barber shop on Drummond Street, just behind Euston Station. It was owned by a spiv called Fred Barrett who'd made a small fortune on the black market during the war, and now ran a bookies out of the back room. Unfortunately for Fred, his criminal past caught up with him when he was glassed by a disgruntled punter in a pub on the Mile End Road.

By now Luigi was happily married to a lovely Italian girl called Maria who he had met at St Aloysius Roman Catholic church. Having begun to establish a reputation as an excellent and discrete barber and in need of an assured future for his burgeoning family, Luigi raided his bank account and bought the barber shop. He stocked it with the finest straight razors and shaving brushes he could find, he used only the best shaving creams and soaps, and found a selection of elegant aftershaves and oils. He purchased the highest quality towels he could afford, found an excellent local laundry that left his towels soft and pleasantly fragrant, and ensured that his leather chairs always reclined just so to give the perfect shaving position.

He laid off almost all of Fred's old staff. Most of them were petty criminals and Luigi would not tolerate that on his premises. The golden rule in his new establishment was that everyone was welcome but crime stayed at the door. Initially his customers were locals, gentlemen gangsters and senior coppers. Despite several attempts at coercion, nothing that was discussed at Luigi's ever left the premises, be it betting tips, stock advice or the latest City rumour. Slowly, as his name spread through the private rooms in pubs, clubs and board rooms, his clientele became business men and increasingly the upper classes. His customers appreciated the excellent shave, the quiet discretion of the staff and the relaxed conversations between barber and client when the most contentious question was "Something for the weekend sir?"

And so it remained. Luigi trained his son, Marcello, to take on the family business, and it thrived. The proximity to Euston station and the reputation for quality attracted a diversity of clients who enjoyed a little luxury to set them up for the day of high pressure negotiations, to survive that crucial board meeting, or for the evening of promise with an elegant companion.

-0-0-0-

Yes, Sherlock had spent many a pleasant afternoon after a trying case, his face wrapped in warm towels, before the application of lather, the frisson of three passes of that sharpened steel across his face and throat in the hands of a trusted master and finally the application of the lotion. Sherlock did not like to be touched, but Marcello and now Tony were trusted hands at the top of their craft and their shaves were perfection. For that to be sullied by the desecration of this poor girl angered Sherlock. The crime had to be solved, and quickly, not only for the still unnamed girl, but also for the Cusanos.

The phone on John's desk rang. He paled and his jaw tightened as he received the message imparted by the voice on the line. Sherlock recognised the voice giving instructions as that of Captain Watson. "Leave the operating room exactly as it is and the patient untouched and in situ. The police will need to get a team in. I'm coming down now. Has anyone contacted DI Panesar?"

The answer was obviously in the affirmative. John hung up the phone. Sherlock already knew the girl had not survived. John knew this and addressed his remarks to PC Patterson. "The patient has died in surgery. DI Panesar is on her way here now. I've ordered the theatre to be secured. We're heading down there now. Either you can stay up here and guard the evidence or you can come with us and I'll lock the door."

Patterson thought things over before coming to a decision. "Chain of evidence doctor. I'll stay up here and ensure nothing is tampered with. The crime scene is only a short distance away, so I'll radio in that you're heading down to the body and I'm sure the DI will be here shortly."

"OK Patterson. You've got my number so call or page me if you need anything." With that, they left the office, leaving the PC speaking into his radio to give an update to HQ.

John and Sherlock made their way towards the operating theatre where the girl's remains lay. Unusually it was John who led the way, his back straight and his fists clenched as he marched down the corridor, ever the soldier. Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Mary warning that this case was triggering some of John's anxieties. A brisk five minute march later they arrived beside the body of the unknown girl.

John took a deep breath to steady himself as he approached the bloody figure on the operating table, the detritus of surgery strewn on the floor.

"Wilson did the best he could. He would have been aiming to stabilise her, stop the blood loss and the secretion of fluids into the abdomen. Giving her any kind of quality of life would have been complicated and left for later surgeries, had she survived. It looks like he had cleaned up the worst of the contamination from her intestines, and that her other organs, liver, spleen, kidneys, were largely undamaged. Sepsis would have been a major concern. With this kind of trauma, Wilson knew going in he was likely to lose the patient, but he did it anyway. Good man."

With great care, he picked up the girls left wrist in his freshly gloved hands turning it gently so Sherlock could see the lacerations. "It's the same on both wrists and hands. Defensive wounds. Despite the cocaine she must have been conscious enough to realise what they were doing to her. And see here, on her abdomen. These shallow incisions look like hesitation marks. The final incision itself was excessive, as though they had no idea where the organs they were looking for were located in the body. Simply started at her bra and slashed down to her knickers." He stepped back and looked at her face, now peaceful in death. "Poor kid."

Sherlock looked closely at the incisions, not touching, merely observing. There was something in the stomach, he could just see. She had obviously crashed before they had got to suturing her stomach. He'd just asked John to pass him some forceps when the theatre door opened to reveal a whirlwind of anger.

"Who the _hell _are you and what are you doing with my body?"

John looked up just as he placed the forceps in Sherlock's gloved hand. "Ah, Detective Inspector. This is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is DI Panesar, recently transferred to the Met from Manchester."

Sherlock glanced at the DI and gave a brief nod before returning to the body. "I need an evidence pot. There is something here in the remains of the stomach. It's already highly degraded from the gastric juices. We need to collect it before it is lost."

The DI leapt forward. "Don't touch. I've heard about you and I'm not having you contaminating my evidence."

Sherlock bristled at the sleight, before taking a breath and passing the forceps to John. "Doctor, would you be so kind as to retrieve the evidence for the DI as I am not to be trusted."

Seeking the approval of the DI before proceeding, John carefully retrieved what appeared to be a miniscule piece of latex from the stomach. Apart from large quantities of pink antacid there appeared to be no other stomach contents.

Sherlock stepped back, stripped his gloves and began tapping on his phone. Placing the evidence in a sterile collection tub, John passed it to the DI. "The bagged evidence is all up in my office being guarded by Constable Patterson. The bags have not been opened since I sealed them immediately after they were cut from the patient. Other than that the patient has only been touched by medical staff trying to save her life. Unfortunately, her injuries were too extensive."

DI Panesar stepped forward to examine the body. "So, this is our Jane Doe."

"Juanita Doe would be more accurate."

DI Panesar's gaze snapped to the detective's. "What do you mean?"

Looking up from his phone and shoving it in his pocket, Sherlock turned towards the DI. John stepped back and watched as his partner let his brain fly over the facts he had observed and deduced.

"Young woman, not wealthy judging by her clothes and what remains of her makeup, but not poor either. Nothing ostentatious, just pleasantly normal looking. The kind of girl you would assume was a student or an au pair and largely ignore. Obvious Hispanic features, not Mediterranean as there is some South or Central American heritage there. Clothes are mainly from the US, but the underwear is from a retailer in Mexico City. So, Mexican. Her boots are well worn and comfortable: a favourite pair comfortable for travelling in. She has no ID or belongings other than the clothes she was wearing. And she arrived in A&amp;E with a cocaine overdose and her abdomen sliced open and ransacked by people with no knowledge of anatomy. The final indicator is the empty stomach and the vast quantity of antacid she had ingested." Sherlock looked expectantly at the DI, who looked just as expectantly back at him.

John smirked as Sherlock gave an exasperated huff and continued with his deductions. "She's a drug mule obviously. A flight was due to land at Heathrow from Mexico City at 10:30 last night. It was delayed by bad weather over the Gulf of Mexico and didn't land until 1:54 this morning. By the time this young lady cleared customs and immigration it would no doubt have been somewhere around 3:30 am. She was obviously met by someone. By this time, the drugs she had swallowed were making themselves known, and she had been drinking antacid to prevent the balloons from being digested. The delay in the flight no doubt caused her and her contact great anxiety. There were emergency road works on the Western Avenue last night and a lorry shed its load in the road works causing significant delays for the traffic heading into central London. By the time the vehicle reached the Marylebone Road I suspect at least one of the balloons had ruptured causing her to show the symptoms of cocaine overdose. Her contact panicked and needed to get the rest of his drugs out of her as a matter of urgency. No point letting a significant quantity of cocaine be digested by a strung out mule. But where to perform this surgery? Ah, yes, Luigi's barbers on Drummond Street with its fully reclining seats and sharp cut-throat razors. They must have broken in through the back as the front is always securely shuttered. So, someone who knows Luigi's, since it was a detour off the main road to get there, yet not someone who knew that they opened at 7am for the early commuters. The now semi-conscious girl is carried in, her personal belongings remaining in the vehicle. She is placed in a barber's chair, her shirt opened and the first hesitant incision made. She revives long enough to try to fight her attackers off, see the defensive wounds on her wrists. Unfortunately she is unsuccessful and they make the incision into her abdomen. Not knowing where in her digestive tract the drugs are, they remove her small and large intestines in their entirety – a messy business. Then they slice open her stomach and rummage around to remove any balloons still lodged there. Once satisfied they have recovered their merchandise they leave the way they came, out the back, leaving the girl to bleed out in Luigi's chair. No doubt only minutes later, Tony Cusano opens up at the front and walks in to discover a young woman bleeding out in his barber shop."

DI Panesar looks thunderstruck, her mouth hanging slightly open as she listens to what Sherlock has deduced. John just shakes his head with a wry grin from his position leant against the instrument table. "Amazing as always, Sherlock."

Closing her jaw with a snap the DI tries to regain control of the situation. "Is that all then?"

Sherlock smirks, recognizing the comment for what it is. "Not quite. Given the route and the victim I'd say you're looking for two men: the son of a Mexican politician, businessman or drug lord, who is based in London, probably Islington given the route from Heathrow. Also his trusted body guard."

"So you think some Mexican drug cartel is trying to muscle in on London?"

"No, I think some wealthy and well connected father doesn't trust his play boy son's welfare with the drug suppliers over here. Too much risk of contaminated product or leverage. He probably sends a mule bearing high quality supplies for his son and entourage several times a year. Unfortunately for this young lady, the combination of bad weather, bad roads and bad luck lead to her death. Now, if we can go to the crime scene I can see what your team have missed."

Shaking her head in disbelief, DI Panesar stepped back, holding the door open for Sherlock and John to pass through. Leaving a PC to guard the operating theatre until the pathologist and forensics team could arrive, they headed up to John's office to check on Patterson, before walking the short distance to Drummond Street and Luigi's.

"Sherlock, I need to stay here and finish my shift. I can't abandon the team any more this morning. They've already had to do without me for nearly an hour. Make sure you text me if you need anything and on no account go running off without backup. Promise me."

"Yes John, of course. I'll text you when I'm finished and I'll see you and Mary later." And with a swirl of Belstaff, Sherlock stalked down the corridor.

DI Panesar turned to John, a look on her face like she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "Is he always like that?"

John grinned. "Yeah. And he's brilliant. Don't listen to all the gossip at the Yard. If you really want to know if he'll do you any good talk to Lestrade and Dimmock. And don't let anyone tell you he's a psychopath, because he really isn't. I should know, I've lived with him for years."

"Are you coming Detective Inspector?" echoed down the corridor in a terse baritone.

DI Panesar shook John's hand. "Pleasure to meet you Doctor. I'd better get going. Thanks for the advice. I'll call you to arrange a time for your statement and I'll send someone to help Patterson get this evidence back to the Yard." And with that, DI Noor Panesar walked sedately down the corridor, not giving the Consulting Detective the chance to see her dashing after him.

John smirked to himself. "Well played Detective Inspector. You're going to do just fine."

-0-0-0-

Arriving at the scene, Sherlock headed straight for Luigi's rear door. An inspection of the lock with his pocket magnifier showed evidence of an attempt to pick it. Stepping inside, the simple alarm system had clearly been disabled.

"Ahh, so our bodyguard has skills." Sherlock smirked.

"What do you mean, skills? And why do you think it's the bodyguard?"

"Simple, my dear Inspector. There is no reason why some over indulged play boy should have knowledge of breaking and entering. And don't forget, they were in a hurry. This had to be done by someone who could get them in quickly and quietly. Leaving evidence of their access wasn't an issue, but not being disturbed was a priority and an alarm certainly would have caused a disturbance."

Sherlock moved forward into the barber shop. He noted the rack where the towels had been grabbed, the hooks where the barbers' personalised work jackets hung, and the drawer where the straight razors were stored. Also, the box of polypropylene gloves used by the barbers when colouring hair.

"They used gloves, and Marcello's jacket is missing so they at least made an effort to keep blood off themselves."

Addressing the forensics techs in the room, DI Panesar bellowed "Get shots of all of this back room including the gloves and the overalls. Dust everything in here for fingerprints, especially the glove box and the razor drawer."

Moving to the row of six reclining chairs, only the one nearest the back room was awash with blood. Sherlock felt a quiet relief that the girl had not died in Marcello's chair. Marcello and Tony always used the two chairs at the front of the shop. Sherlock felt a sadness that, after all the years the Cusanos had kept to Luigi's golden rule, crime stops at the door, someone had brought not just crime, but cold-blooded murder into this haven.

"Make sure you check all the blood both here and on the victim. Using a straight razor is a dying art, and holding them is not easy. Marcello keeps his razors well stropped and deadly sharp. I suspect it was the body guard who carried out the evisceration, and I have no doubt he cut himself in the process."

DI Panesar waved her hand at the blood. "You heard the man. Somewhere in this mess is the blood of our killer. Find it."

Sherlock stood and addressed the DI directly to her face for the first time. "You'll want to secure CCTV footage from Heathrow. They will have been discreet but not furtive after all they had done this many times before and were simply collecting a passenger. It was not until later that they became desperate. Check previous flights from Mexico City for the same vehicle and driver. They'll have done this several times before. Also, have a word with Marcello and Tony Cusano. See if they remember a Central American play boy type who would have come in once, maybe twice over the last year. He'll have come during the day, most likely late afternoon, to experience the shave and no doubt to impress the latest girl-friend. He'll have been accompanied by his body guard, who would have declined the shave and hovered close to his charge throughout, especially when the blade was being used."

DI Panesar scribbled notes into her book. "Will do Mr Holmes. And thank you. Maybe you're not as much of a pain in the arse as I was lead to believe. "

Sherlock smirked back. "No, I really am. Just ask Lestrade."

As Sherlock made to leave the shop via the front door, he turned back to the DI. "I'll come in to give a statement with John. And, if you need me in future, feel free to text. I think you'll do very nicely."

Watching the mad man walk away, Noor could only smile and shake her head, thinking "This could be interesting. I'd better talk to Lestrade before I get in too deep." Then she turned back to her team, running her eye over the collection of evidence as she called back to the Yard to request CCTV footage from Heathrow, passenger lists and any CCTV from along the route, and to add Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson to the list of witnesses.


	7. Noor meets Greg and Sally

It was early afternoon when Noor Panesar made it back to the Yard leaving her team to finish up at the barbers and the hospital. PC Patterson had safely escorted all the evidence bags from John's office back to the Yard, and Noor now added the tub of latex fragment to the list of evidence to be painstakingly examined and analysed.

On her way back to her office, she'd stopped off at a sandwich bar to grab a cheese salad baguette and a coffee before completing the journey to her new office building. She'd only transferred from Manchester three weeks ago, feeling thrilled to join the Murder/Major Investigation Team after five successful years in the Greater Manchester Police Serious Crimes Division. She was very lucky that her Chief Superintendent had backed her transfer and given her a glowing endorsement after she'd been forced to relocate to London for her husband's work.

She'd struggled at first in the white male dominated world of Serious Crimes, especially as a married Sikh woman. Of course they'd started off taking the piss and trying to intimidate her into moving on, giving her all the crap jobs whilst being discretely racist and sexist: even this bunch of misogynistic troglodytes knew they couldn't openly discriminate without incurring the wrath of the higher ups and the 'bleeding hearts' at the Home Office. And she'd made it very clear the first time she'd found herself abandoned in a darkened warehouse with a knife wielding crack head that she was not taking any bullshit from anyone, certainly not the drug addled addict who was carted away with a broken wrist, dislocated shoulder and concussion, and most definitely not from her 'colleagues' who'd laughingly abandoned her to her fate. When she'd walked back into the office, nursing an ice pack on her bruised knuckles and a rakish smile on her face she'd sent the very clear message that she wasn't taking anyone's shit. Taking out her baton and slowly wiping it clean with a tissue (only a smattering of blood from the bloke's wrist, but she made it look good) whilst sitting back in her chair, feet resting on her desk was perhaps the final part of the hard arse image she was successfully projecting to her new work mates. The fact that she'd been terrified and was still shaking inside was something she would save for later, when she finally sank into a hot bubble bath surrounded by candles and wrapped in the arms of her beloved Adarshpal sobbing on his shoulder as she finally addressed the horrors of the day.

After that display, it didn't take much more to get her new colleagues trained. In the end, their final act of male defiance was to refuse to invite her to the pub for post case drinks. Not that she minded, since she never touched alcohol anyway. Let the little boys have their testosterone time. As long as they let her get on with her job and showed her a grudging respect she could cope.

And now she was in London, working for the Metropolitan Police and based at the iconic New Scotland Yard. Not that the building itself was anything special, looking like any other glass fronted office block, but that revolving triangle outside, that did something to her, making her swell slightly with pride knowing she was following in the footsteps of some of the best detectives in the world.

Exiting the lift, her mind already planning her tasks for the afternoon, she was surprised to hear a voice behind her, calling her name. Turning, she was confronted by the slightly dishevelled form of the newly promoted DCI Greg Lestrade heading back to his own office bearing one of the appalling excuses for a cup of coffee from the vending machine.

"Afternoon Panesar. Just the person I needed to see. My office, as soon as you've got a minute."

"Yes sir. I'm free now if you give me a minute to lose my coat and hand off this evidence."

"OK. See you in 10 then. Bring your coffee and sandwich if you want. I don't stand on ceremony and know how easy it can be to miss a meal." And with a friendly grin he continued to his own office.

Ten minutes later, DI Panesar was sitting on the sofa in DCI Lestrade's new office, munching her baguette.

"So, settling in?"

"Think so Sir."

"How's your slasher case going?"

"Well Sir. Lots of leads." Lestrade raised his eyebrows in surprise at this, not expecting this type of case to generate much clear evidence initially. Random killings always were a bastard to start with.

"I went over to University College Hospital this morning to see the deceased and bumped into one of our Consultants. Apparently he'd been called in by the A&amp;E doctor who'd triaged the girl."

Lestrade's look of surprise quickly disappeared and a half smile appeared on his face. "That would be Dr John Watson, and the consultant was Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes sir"

"What did you think? Of Holmes I mean."

"Much as I'd been led to believe by Sergeant Donovan. Rude and arrogant. He told me himself that he's a pain in the arse. But he's obviously brilliant. Spotted several things it would have taken a while for us to get on to, or may have missed altogether. He,err … discovered a fragment of latex in the victim's stomach. By the time we'd got to her it probably would have been totally degraded. He's given me a whole new direction to go in which I'm pursuing as soon as I get back to my desk. He thinks this isn't random and that she was a drug mule delivering personal supplies to some rich kid based in London. Obviously I'll keep pursuing the random slasher angle, but the logic of this new direction makes sense. "

Lestrade nodded as she explained the events of the morning, before looking at her with a sly smile. "Did he deduce you?"

Noor looked blankly at the DCI, not understanding the question. "Oh, so he didn't. Be prepared, he will one day especially if you piss him off. You see, he _observes_ and what he doesn't observe he deduces. He can tell you your life's history in pretty much a glance from the last time you had sex, and who with to what you had for breakfast. I've no idea how he does it, I just know that he does. If he likes you he'll keep what he knows quiet, but if you cross him he will deduce you fully and loudly in front of anyone in the area. The uniforms love it, best entertainment they get on a crime scene. It's us plain clothes that are the ones who mainly attract his ire. Which brings me on to Sergeant Donovan."

"Sir?"

"I'm assigning her to your team as your bagman. She's great at organising and analysis of evidence. And her admin skills have saved my arse on more than one occasion. You need experience at bringing on a junior officer and she needs someone who can help her get the promotion to DI that she's long overdue. I think working for a, if you'll excuse the phrase, woman of colour who has no doubt experienced many of the same prejudices but has overcome them will do her good. "

Noor mulled over her interactions so far with Sgt Sally Donovan. Apart from the odd meeting at the vending machine or in the canteen, the main one had been when they'd bumped into each other in the Ladies and she'd let rip with her obvious dislike for Sherlock Holmes, warning Noor off and calling the Yard Consultant a freak and a psychopath.

"OK Sir. Anything I need to know?"

"I want you to make up your own mind about how to proceed, but you've mentioned she's already spoken to you about Sherlock Holmes. I'm guessing that it was nothing good." Noor nodded her assent, but remained silent.

"You see, Sherlock started consulting for me unofficially some years ago. He was terrible then, really out of control with all the social graces of a baboon. He had no regard for procedure and deduced everyone who got in his way. Also, it was not unusual for him to show up high. Don't get me wrong, he's not an addict. John explained to me that his brain just takes in data all the time and the only way he had to manage it then was with cocaine." Noor looked shocked. "Don't worry, he hasn't used in years and is much better now he has regular cases to keep his mind stimulated, but back then he was a bit of a loose cannon. Sally Donovan transferred to my team not long after and to say she was shocked is an understatement. All she saw was a posh, entitled, white bloke swanking round the crime scene calling everyone idiots and traipsing over the evidence. He embodied everything she hated and she made no secret of it. Of course Sherlock immediately deduced every secret of her life very loudly in front of her new colleagues. And Sally Donovan has had a hard life, so it wasn't pretty. She's worked damn hard for everything she's got and I'm proud of her. I'm just sorry I couldn't help her to get rid of her blinkers. She can get quite single minded about some things and once her mind is made up, nothing and no-one can divert her. It's held her back, and, if she's honest with herself, she probably realises it, but nothing I've done or said has seemed to get through to her. I'm hoping that you'll have more luck."

At that moment, Lestrade's mobile pinged with a new message. He gave it a quick look and a twitch of a smile before returning the phone to his desk.

"And what about our Consulting pain in the arse? Think you can work with him?"

"Yes Sir. I think so."

"Good, because his help is invaluable. Both he and Dr Watson are fully accredited consultants and can be called in to any crime scene, although Sherlock will tell you pretty quickly if he's not interested. He has this scale of interest on crime scenes and won't show up for anything less than a 6 unless he's really bored. He does have right to refusal to attend, so don't think you can order him to turn up, although sometimes a bit of gentle persuasion works. John is his partner, medical expert and backup. Be aware, John is usually armed. He's fully licensed and knows what he's doing being ex-army, so don't worry about it, and he only shoots if he has to. Watch out for Sherlock. His fingers are as quick as his brain and he will happily lift ID and evidence 'for the case'. If anything does go walkabout, just ask John and he'll get it back to you. Generally they don't do anything to compromise a case, but if Sherlock does play the arse don't be afraid to call him on it. If you're having Sherlock on a scene it's best to have someone videoing him. His deductions are so fast, things can get lost. Also, after the whole fake detective thing a few years back, some defence barristers still think they can get away with bringing that up in court even though it was proven to be bollocks. Having a recording of him at the crime scene prevents claims of evidence tampering or fabrication as well as helping with your case notes. Make sure the boys do all their paperwork as well, preferably as soon as possible. And if you get a text asking for backup make sure you get there PDQ. You'll either find John sitting on the handcuffed suspect, or one or both of them in need of an ambulance, or an Armed Response Unit." Lestrade finished with an affectionate smile, which surprised Noor considering they sounded a handful.

"So DI Panesar, anything else you need to know? My door is always open, so don't be afraid to ask."

"No, I think that's all Sir. I assume I'm taking Donovan straight away."

"Yes. Give me an hour or so to let her know and I'll send her in to you."

"And Sir. Should I be aware of anything … personal between Mr Holmes and Dr Watson? I don't want to inadvertently ruffle feathers."

"Ahh, that thorny question. What you need to know is that they are best friends and flatmates. Have been for about six years now, give or take, including fake suicides. They are totally committed to each other and neither will stand any threat to the other. John Watson is happily married to a Professor of Tropical Diseases called Mary and the three of them live together, along with their equally batty but adorable landlady, Mrs Hudson at 221B Baker Street. As to whether there is anything sexual between them, I think the answer is no, but don't for one second think that there isn't an intense love there. Everyone can see it, but we've learned not to talk about it. Anything else you need to know?"

"No, I don't think so. Will Donovan be able to help getting access to CCTV at Heathrow and along the route into London?"

"Yes. Sherlock's suggestion?"

"Yes Sir."

"Good. He's probably right. Jammy bastard usually is. Oh, and he likes you, god help you." Lestrade said, grinning.

Noor was confused. "Sir?"

Greg held up his mobile for the DI to see the text message now displayed on the screen. '_She is adequate – SH'_

-0-0-0-

Noor was sitting at her desk having got her team working on traffic cam footage along the route from Heathrow. Tony and Marcello Cusano were coming in later that afternoon to give formal statements and had been asked to bring their customer records. The evidence found so far had all been logged and was now being processed, and the post mortem was scheduled for the next morning.

So far a door to door in the area around the barbershop had, unsurprisingly, turned up nothing. The next step was to contact Heathrow to go through their passenger lists and CCTV footage.

A knock on the door made Noor look up to see Sgt Sally Donovan stood in her doorway.

"Ahh, Sgt Donovan. I take it DCI Lestrade has spoken to you. Come in and sit down."

Donovan looked far from happy with the situation. She'd worked with Lestrade for years, and had hoped to reap the rewards of his being promoted to DCI. That she was now reporting to the newest DI in the unit was not a good sign and made her feel that she was being overlooked. Again.

"I thought I'd set up some ground rules as you're my bagman for the foreseeable future."

Sally tried not to wince at the word 'foreseeable'. Her future was beginning to look very shaky, but she couldn't for the life of her figure out what she had done wrong. Why had Lestrade dumped her after all these years and why was she being palmed off on the proby DI?

"As you know, I'm working on this Jane Doe murder case."

"The slasher case?"

"Possibly. I'm not ruling out a random attack, but from the leads Mr Holmes gave me this morning, it's very possible it's something very different."

At the mention of Sherlock bloody Holmes Sally's anger began to rise. "The freak? When did he get involved? Listen Ma'am, don't believe a word he says. He's a bloody psychopath …"

Noor Panesar took a breath and raised her hand. "Enough. Sgt Donovan, Mr Holmes is a fully accredited consultant with the Metropolitan Police. I will not have any of my officers behaving in any way but with professional courtesy to their colleagues, be they serving officers, forensics techs or consultants. Are we understood?"

Sally fought back the bile in her throat. "Yes Ma'am."

"As a matter of fact, I witnessed his work today at University College Hospital. He was very thorough and professional. He has given me some useful insights on the case and some interesting leads to pursue. Which is why I want you to get access to passenger lists and CCTV footage for Heathrow airport and its surrounding car parks and access roads. We're specifically looking for our victim on a flight that arrived from Mexico City in the early hours of this morning, and the man or men who collected her."

"Yes Ma'am."

"And if this lead pans out, I'll need a couple of officers with sharp eyes going over as much footage as they have on previous flights from Mexico. Maybe see if we can lay hands on some facial recognition software. Holmes believes this is a regular thing, with drug mules coming in to supply a local play boy. He says the delay of last night's flight and the road works on the Western Avenue resulted in the accidental overdose when a balloon ruptured in the girl's stomach. Until we have corroboration, I'm not accepting this as the only possible interpretation, but it certainly is the best fit for the available evidence at the moment."

"Yes Ma'am." Sally felt despondent. Not only was she now bagman for a junior DI, but the woman had been suckered into believing the freak's bullshit. As she got up to leave, DI Panesar called her back.

"Sally, a moment longer. I know you've got issues with Holmes, and I know how hard it is to be a woman, especially a black woman, in this sea of testosterone. You've got to pick your battles and be single minded about the right things. At the moment, I think you're allowing your own prejudices to colour your judgement and that's not doing you any favours. The way I work is to follow the evidence logically and to try not to let assumptions prejudice my decisions. I have enough prejudice in my life without adding to it. DCI Lestrade allocated you to me because he thinks we can do each other good. And my goal is to help you get to where you want to be, but first of all we need to get those blinkers off and that temper sorted. Disrespecting other professionals only makes you look unprofessional. So think about what you need from me to help you get through this. My door is always open and I'm sure DCI Lestrade is also happy to help any way he can."

Seeing the look of anger and shame on Sally's face Noor felt a pang of pity for the woman who had fought so hard, but couldn't see that sometimes she was her own worst enemy. "Anyway, let's get back to work Sergeant. And think over what I've said. I'm as much here to help you as you are to help me."

As Donovan left her office, Noor gave a sigh and sank back in her chair, hoping that the initial discussion had not gone as badly as she thought. Shaking herself, she sat back upright and began going through the crime scene photos of the barber shop, trusting that Donovan would get on with her job and find the evidence she needed at Heathrow.


	8. Ximena and Gulpari

**WARNING: war, death, flashback**

* * *

Having completed his sweep of the crime scene with the barber's shop and updated DI Panesar on his findings, Sherlock spent a fruitless thirty minutes scouring the alley behind the shops for any clue. To his chagrin, none of his homeless network appeared to have been in the area that night, and it was unlikely that anyone else would have seen anything in the early hours of the morning.

With a final sweeping gaze over the scene, no busy with police and the forensic team, Sherlock began the short walk back to Baker Street. Arriving just after midday, he decided to tidy the kitchen in preparation for John's anticipated arrival after his shift. He knew John would be anxious and emotional after the morning's events. Sherlock had already warned Mary that tonight could be bad and she had texted back that she would detour via the supermarket to pick up comfort foods. Even so, Sherlock did the washing up and wiped down the kitchen table.

Since his return, Sherlock had been using Flat C for his experiments, his office and consulting room, so generally the kitchen in Flat B was clear of noxious smells and experiments, and the fridge was clean and free of potential contaminants. Sharing a flat with two doctors, one of whom was an expert in tropical diseases, had forced Sherlock to adhere to more rigid hygiene protocols. Nevertheless, Sherlock still kept a microscope in the kitchen to allow for the analysis of samples in the comfort of his own home. Many a pleasant evening was spent with Mary and John reading whilst Sherlock made copious notes about the contents of his slides.

Wanting to make sure that he was aware immediately of John's return, Sherlock collected samples and notes, perched on his stool at the kitchen table and resumed his analysis. His current project was a map of the contaminants of London based upon finger nail scrapings. With the help of samples from his homeless network, his analysis was proving interesting and could help locate the regular haunts of both criminals and victims. So far he'd found increased diesel particulates near the stations north of the river, and unsurprisingly, pollen near the parks and other landscaped areas.

It was the sound of the front door opening that roused him from his work. He'd become so absorbed that he had not noticed how much time had passed. The sound of Mary, struggling up the stairs with shopping stirred him to action as he held the kitchen door open and relieved her of one of the straining bags.

"Afternoon sweetie. Get a brew on while I put this away." And with a light kiss to his lips, Mary turned away to start tidying away her purchases. Sherlock turned, emptied the kettle and filled it with cold water, and, replacing it on its stand, switched it on to boil. As he collected mugs from the cupboard and tea bags from the caddy he replayed the afternoon in his mind. Had John come home and he'd missed him? No. John's coat was not on the hook, his shoes were missing and his briefcase was not resting against the wall. No, John had not been home.

"Where's John?" Bright blue eyes looked at Sherlock expectantly as Mary turned from putting the new bottle of milk in the fridge and removing the opened one for their tea.

"I don't know. He hasn't been back. I was analysing some slides, but I would have noticed if he had returned. He was due to finish his shift at 1:30. Even if he was caught up in paperwork he should have been home by 2:30 at the latest."

"You're text said to expect a danger night. Care to explain?"

"A girl was brought in to A&amp;E this morning. John triaged her and called me. She was a drug mule and had been eviscerated by her employer to recover his shipment. She did not survive surgery. In the normal course of events this is nothing unusual. John has seen worse during our investigations and, no doubt, during his time in the RAMC. However, there was something about his reaction. He was more … emotional. There was a tightness around his mouth and eyes, a slight frown, a stiffness to his shoulder and a flexing of his left hand. Nothing significant in themselves, but together they indicated a certain disquiet. I fear something he saw has triggered unpleasant memories and he may have a hard time of it over the next few days."

Mary shook her head and cuddled her mug of tea to her chest. "Well none of us are strangers to nightmares and we've all got our ghosts. I got him his favourite sausages for dinner, plus I managed to get hold of a savoy cabbage. I dropped some suet along with a bag of flame raisins in to Mrs Hudson and asked her to whip up one of her glorious spotted dicks, so comfort food is taken care of. Now all we need to do is work out where he's taken himself off to ruminate. Do you think he might have dropped in to the Euston Tap for a beer?"

"I don't know. Possibly. Or maybe the Green Man. I'll call the Tap and you call the Green Man to see if he's been in."

Ten minutes later and they had confirmation that the staff at neither pub remembered serving John that day. A call to the hospital had confirmed that John had left at around two, but that his brief case was still in his office. Sherlock placed a quick call to DI Panesar. He did not expect John to have gone to the Yard, but it was worth checking just in case.

"No Mr Holmes, I've not seen Dr Watson since this morning. I did want to book an appointment for you both to come in and give your statements. Is tomorrow morning about ten OK? Oh, and I should thank you. You were right. Immigration at Heathrow were able to confirm our victim's ID as Ximena Mendez. She arrived on the delayed flight from Mexico City as you suspected. I've got two of my team heading to Heathrow now to review CCTV to identify who she contacted. I've notified the DCI and Chief Super that our victim is a Mexican National and recommended we hold fire on contacting the Mexican Embassy to locate and notify her family, just in case it also tips off the killer. I don't like doing it, but one day won't make any difference to her, and it may be enough to allow us to get justice for her. I don't know how the top brass will play this, but as long as I've got time to do my job I'll be happy. I've also let the drug boys know, but they're happy to leave it with me for the moment. I think it was the mention of entrails and evisceration that put them off." Sherlock mouth quirked into a slight smile at the sound of the DI's wry laugh down the phone.

"You've done well Detective Inspector, getting an ID so quickly. Please let me know if there is any other assistance I can give you. I will see you tomorrow morning, as you request. Until then." And he ended the call, his brain immediately switching back to the problem of locating John Watson.

Sherlock knew John had left the hospital at two leaving his brief case locked in his office. Whilst he would occasionally leave his briefcase overnight if he was due a shift the next day, he was not due in to the hospital for the rest of the week, so under normal circumstances he would have brought it home. His atypical action only confirmed what Sherlock had already deduced: these were not normal circumstances.

As was his wont when called for an early start, John would not have eaten breakfast until he arrived at the hospital. Given that the victim did not arrive until nearly two hours into his shift, John should have had time to eat. A quick check on the online news sites showed no unusual accidents or incidents, so there should have been no emergencies above and beyond the normal accidents of everyday life. Depending on how busy the A&amp;E was, John should have had time for a rest break and lunch. But, John in this mood would not have eaten. When triggered, John could become so lost in his work that eating and drinking would be forgotten. He had left later than usual, but had not gone to either of his usual pubs nor to the Yard and had certainly not come home. Leaving his briefcase suggested he wanted to be unencumbered, so was no doubt planning to walk. Regents Park was therefore the most likely destination, rather than the bustling streets of London on a sunny day.

Grabbing his coat, Sherlock made to leave the flat. He called back to Mary who was just coming down the stairs from changing in the upstairs bedroom. "I'm going to the Park to find him. I'll call when I know anything. You might want to change the sheets on your bed. I suspect both of us will be needed tonight."

Mary nodded in acknowledgement. Worry wrinkled her forehead and pinched her lips, but determination made her eyes bright. "When you find him, tell him I love him and I'm waiting here for him."

"Of course." And with that Sherlock strode purposefully down the stairs and out of 221B onto Baker Street, turning towards Outer Circle and the nearest entrance to Regents Park. John was in trouble and he needed the love of both his partners to bring him back.

-0-0-0-

John stood on the bridge, staring at the water, his forearms bearing the imprint of the parapet where he had rested his weight on them for so long. He'd walked slowly after leaving the hospital, his mind fogged by the morning's events, his feet leading him in no particular direction, his subconscious determined to get him away from the bustle of the city. Approaching a sandwich shop, John's brain had led him inside to order an indeterminate sandwich, a cardboard cup of hot drink and a small banana which he had shoved unthinkingly into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back. His purchase paid for and clasped in unfeeling hands he had left the shop and again let his feet and subconscious lead him where they would. He must have drunk his hot drink, whatever it had been, because when he finally returned to awareness, leaning on the parapet of the bridge, staring at the ducks and swans, the cardboard cup was long cold and empty. A bag was balanced on the parapet next to his left elbow. Curious, he opened the paper bag to discover he had apparently ordered hummus in pitta bread. His subconscious choice of sandwich and his lack of memory of arriving in this spot told him all he needed to know about the state of his mind. He'd known that he had been shaken by the events of the morning, but had not realised by just how much. Now, as he contemplated events, he fed his sandwich to the ducks in the water beneath him.

Sherlock spotted his quarry at twenty three minutes to five, leaning on the parapet of Longbridge. Having entered the park by Clarence Gate, Sherlock had made his way along the west side of the boating lake toward the Hanover Bridges, before crossing back and heading towards the Inner Circle. Having spent so long in the desert, John was often attracted to the relative serenity of the park with its green expanses, lush vegetation and cool water. It was therefore no surprise and a great relief to find him leaning on the bridge in total stillness, an empty paper bag screwed up tightly in his left hand, and an empty cardboard coffee cup at his feet. What worried Sherlock most was the slight bulge in John's jacket at the small of his back. John's gun was securely at home, in the safe installed in his bedroom for that purpose. So what was in the waistband of John's trousers and what did it say about his state of mind?

Approaching calmly, his features schooled into friendly neutrality, Sherlock joined the man still staring vacantly at the lake. What could he say? "Where the hell have you been? Found you. Don't wander off again. Why didn't you come home? You should have called. You scared me."

Instead, Sherlock placed a hand on John's left shoulder giving a gentle squeeze and said simply "Her name is Ximena Mendez." And listened with relief as John breathed in deeply and released the tension in his fist, the screwed up bag falling unheeded to the ground.

Sherlock stooped to retrieve the paper, pushing it into his pocket before it could blow onto the lake. Turning, he mirrored the position of the man beside him, folding his arms and resting them on the parapet.

The silence stretched on for several more minutes before John began to speak, his voice hushed into tones of schooled neutrality, but loud enough for his companion to hear not only his words, but the underlying pain.

"That's not the first abdominal wound I've dealt with. As a trauma surgeon in a war zone you see them all the time. IED's, mines, bullets, shrapnel, you'd be surprised how many different ways there are for someone's guts to end up on the ground. And I've probably dealt with them all."

Silence descended again for a few minutes. John continued to stare across the lake and Sherlock remained intensely attuned to his companion. He heard the gentle splash of tears into the water of the lake. He felt the subtle tremor in his companion's body. When John began speaking again, his voice trembled with suppressed emotion.

"We had a lot of spare time at camp. It was either madness or tedium with very little in between. One of our translators, Hamasa, offered to teach us Pashto and Dari so we could talk to our patients. It's always useful to ask where it hurts or what the symptoms are and get first hand feedback. Of course to start with we needed to learn the grammar, so we started making it a game. We'd pick phrases we were all familiar with and translate them, with Hamasa's help, into both languages. We did nursery rhymes, poems, song lyrics, all sorts. Can you imagine, 'Stairway to Heaven' in Pashto. Then Danny Fielding, one of the nurses, suggested 'The Lord's Prayer'. His family were Baptists, so I suppose it made sense. He pointed out it was non-denominational so after a bit of ribbing we agreed. We had a hell of a time trying to explain 'trespass' to Hamasa, but in the end we managed. And then we went on to translate 'Summer Nights' from 'Grease'." John wiped at his eyes and took a steadying breath before continuing.

"We were on patrol. We were to make contact with the head man of a village to gain intelligence on local insurgent activity. I was there to offer medical aid as required. A hearts and minds exercise, as the Americans liked to call it. I'd give a few vitamin shots to the kids, check for and treat any minor illnesses and injuries, take the blood pressure of the pregnant women where I was allowed, that sort of thing. We'd walked through the pass and were heading along the road towards the village when we heard an explosion followed by screaming. It was obviously an IED somewhere ahead of us. When we reached the scene there was a local woman huddled by the road side in hysterics. Turns out her daughter had triggered the IED. Everything below her knees was gone, what remained of her legs were shredded and she sustained catastrophic injuries to her abdomen. The force of the explosion had thrown her backwards, breaking her spine, so she wasn't feeling much pain, despite still being conscious. She was mostly responding to her mother's screams."

John drew in another deep breath and rolled his shoulders. "It was obvious there was nothing I could do. The blood loss was already terminal, even if I had blood with me for a transfusion. The damage to her abdomen was also beyond repair. All I could do was make her comfortable. I gave her mother a shot of benzodiazepine to calm her down and asked her if we could send someone to the village to fetch the child's father. Then I sat with them. Gulpari had her head in her mother's lap. Her eyes were wide with fear, but were swimming in and out of focus. I stroked her forehead to sweep her hair away from her eyes. She said "Please." It broke my heart. I smiled at her, took her tiny blood covered hand in both of mine and then, for no apparent reason began reciting 'The Lord's Prayer' to her in Pashto. I don't know why. I s'pose I remembered Danny's words: 'It's non-denominational'. I'm glad we worked out trespass. It was the last word she heard before she died." Another pause, another sigh and a clenching and unclenching of his left hand. "A few minutes later half the village turned up lead by a few of our lads and the head man. They'd brought a blanket and a shawl. I managed to disentangle the mother as gently as I could, then I gently manoeuvred her remains onto the blanket to carry her back to the village, covered in the shawl. Four of us carried her back, one on each corner of the blanket. I was a horrible little procession. Her mother was being consoled by some of the women. From what I could understand, her father was trading in Kabul and not due back till the next day. As a bridge-building exercise the whole thing worked brilliantly. Apparently the British were always welcomed in that village. But that that poor child lost her life … it haunted me. Her eyes, so wild with fear, as she tried to hold on to life, and her mother begging me to save her daughter when there was nothing I could do. I've never felt so helpless, until this morning, when they brought her in. And this time it wasn't an accident or an indiscriminate act of terrorism. It was a deliberate decision that a human life was worthless when compared to a bag of white powder. And they didn't even kill her and then gut her, she wasn't even worth that much consideration. They slit her open and then left her to bleed out. What kind of a heartless bastard does that? Tell me Sherlock. Please. Because, despite everything I've seen I still can't understand that level of inhumanity."

By now, John had turned towards Sherlock and was looking at him, his blue eyes tinged with red from crying, pleading with Sherlock for an answer that the detective could not give.

Sherlock leant forward to take John's shoulders. "I can't answer that for you because I don't understand it myself. I can explain the motivations of murder, the chemical reactions caused by rage, the events that can lead to savagery, even the psychological processes that lead to mob violence, but I can't explain to you why some humans see other humans as somehow less. And yes, I know I call people idiots and dismiss them as unworthy of my time and consideration, but I don't see them as less than human or only worth slaughter. It isn't even hatred or even psychopathy, this was indifference. She literally meant nothing, and I agree, that is difficult to understand even when we see it more often than we care to admit. I suppose that was why you knew I wasn't a high-functioning sociopath despite my declarations."

"Yeah. You compartmentalise to prevent emotions from clouding your judgement, just like any good surgeon is forced to do to get the job done. But you do care about people. You've never been emotionless, even when you tried so desperately to suppress them so you didn't have to deal with them. Anyone who knows you sees you're not without empathy; you're not without feelings. You show Mary and I such love, it breaks my heart that you spent so many years thinking you were somehow wrong or unworthy."

Sherlock smiled a little sadly as he swept John into a hug, before turning him around to face the Inner Circle. He picked up the discarded coffee cup before returning his arm to John's shoulders and guiding him forward off the bridge. "Come on John. I bet you haven't eaten a thing since first thing this morning. Let's go to The Garden Café and get you tea and a sandwich. No wonder you're struggling emotionally with such low blood sugar. You know you need to eat regularly, and I'm cross with you not taking proper care of yourself."

John smiled a little weakly, but butted his head into Sherlock's shoulder with genuine affection. "Yeah. The ducks liked my sandwich. I could do with something. I'm beginning to feel quite nauseous."

"Come on. Then we'll head home. Mary has been shopping and has bought all your favourite foods for dinner. I'll give her a call when we get to the café to let her know you're OK. She can't wait for you to get home, but I'm sure she'd rather you were a little less pale before we get there. Now, nip into the loo and wash your hands and face while I grab you a sandwich. Oh, and you might want to remove that banana from your waistband. We don't want it to go off."

"Yes Sherlock. Thank you Sherlock." John said with a shy grin as he pushed the banana into Sherlock's coat pocket before he headed to the toilets to clean up.

Sherlock grinned back and felt a wave of relief as he deposited the paper bag and cup in the bin, then pulled out his phone to text Mary as he walked to the food counter.

He was in no doubt that John would have a bad time tonight as his subconscious processed the day's events, but with Mary on one side and Sherlock on the other, both holding him with love, it would be a lot better than it could have been. And he thought about Ximena and Gulpari, two strangers from opposite sides of the planet who had felt the compassion of Dr John Watson.

* * *

**Author's Note:** What defines creative works is the emotional response of the audience, good or bad. That is as essential to the creative process as the work itself. I had hoped to elicit some form of response, in which I appear to have been unsuccessful. I can only ask you to give me your thoughts on my endeavours, whatever they may be.

To those of you who have read these scratchings, I thank you. Your time and contribution is very much appreciated.

Thank you


	9. To sleep, perchance not to dream

**Thank you for the reviews, favs and follows. All feedback is gratefully received and helps me to work out how this story will develop.**

**In this chapter our lovers deal with the fallout of John's day.**

* * *

They walked back to Baker Street at a gentle stroll. Sherlock knew that John needed the facts of the case to better process the raw emotions churned up by the events of the morning. As they walked he talked John through the crime scene and the leads he had given DI Panesar.

"So, thanks to you they've managed to give her back her name?"

"Yes. The Mexican Embassy should be able to locate her family."

John looked down at his feet before staring off into the distance at nothing in particular. "Good. That's good. Thank you."

Sherlock reaches up to gently pat his friend's shoulder. "The least we could do was give her back her identity."

After another hundred yards of silence and contemplation, John turned his head to look at his partner's profile. "Do you think we'll get them?"

"We stand a chance. The longer they think we can't ID her, the more likely we are to catch them. The crime itself shows they're arrogant and stupid enough to think they can get away with murder. I doubt they'll even consider running unless they realise we've ID'd her. Even then they may think they've covered their tracks well enough. A lot will depend on the relationship between the bodyguard and his employer, and how easy it will be to buy the bodyguard's silence. Of course, the identity and position of the employer's family will have a bearing. They were using mules, not diplomatic bags to smuggle in the drugs, so the father is unlikely to be linked to the diplomatic corps, or is unwilling to risk that level of exposure for his addict son. However, power, wealth and connections can buy an awful lot of protection. We'll just have to see if the DI can identify our murderers, then we'll have a better idea how this will play out."

Sherlock was rooting in his pocket for the front door key when John's jaw tightened in resolution. "I want to get justice for her. I know she was a drug smuggler, but not everyone has a lot of choice in these things. She didn't deserve how she died. I want to help put that right."

"Well, you've already done a lot to help her by calling me in. It sounds like she would have gone unidentified if you hadn't have seen that all was not as it seemed. You did well. We continue tomorrow at ten o'clock when we give our statements. Are you OK with that?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm good." Sherlock was aware of John's left hand clenching twice, but he chose not to mention his love's distress.

The door at the top of the stairs flew open and Mary happily bounded down, embracing her husband with such force that the air left his lungs in a startled huff. "I'm so glad you're home. Well done for finding him so fast Sherlock." Mary disentangled herself, placed a kiss upon her husband's lips then ushered him up the stairs into the flat, the clasp of her hand around Sherlock's fingers dragging him along behind her. "Go and shower John. Sherlock will make tea while I start dinner. Come along, scoot." And she patted his bum before turning to hang his coat upon the hook by the door.

Once John was in the bathroom, Mary turned to Sherlock, embracing him and gently pulling his head down to plant a kiss upon his lips. "Thank you, sweetie for finding him. How bad is he?"

"Not brilliant but he's coping. It's churned up memories of an unpleasant incident in Afghanistan. He's never talked about his experiences in any detail, and I've never wanted to ask, but this one was pretty horrific."

"No, he's never really discussed anything with me either. Generalities, but no specifics. We'll just have to be there for him and help him work through this. At least he's not due back at the hospital this week. Do you think he should help you with the case?"

"Yes. He needs to give this girl closure. If DI Panesar wants us."

"OK. That's a plan. Now, wash your hands and get a brew on. Dinner won't cook itself."

Ten minutes later John padded down the stairs clad in sweat pants and a t-shirt, feet bare and towel rubbing his still damp hair. Entering the kitchen he found Mary and Sherlock sitting either side of the table, Sherlock chopping carrots and Mary peeling potatoes.

Mary looked up as her husband drew a chair from under the table and sat down. She pushed a chopping board, knife and savoy cabbage in front of him then planted an empty colander next to the board. "Chop the cabbage, love. Sherlock will make you a cuppa. The oven's on and dinner should be ready in half an hour."

John picked up the kitchen knife and set to work on the cabbage. Mary finished the potatoes and set them on to boil before starting to shell the fresh peas she'd bought as a special treat. Sherlock placed the mug of tea in front of John before returning to finish the carrots then assisting Mary with the peas. No-one spoke and there were no glances at John, each lover remaining focussed on their own job. They worked seamlessly with the ease and trust that develops between partners. Once all the vegetables were finished, Mary washed them and popped them in the saucepan, and the cabbage in the steamer then she returned to her seat at the table. Only then, with all three drinking the remains of their now cooling tea, did any of them speak.

It was John who broke the silence, asking Mary how her day at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine had gone. Her stories of the day's antics of her students lead into a light hearted discussion about their own times as students. Of course, Mary and John had shared most of their student days and Sherlock's university days had been spent in research and isolation from his fellow students, but listening to his loves laugh about some of the things they had got up to made his own memories feel less of a burden upon his soul.

Not for the first time, he wished that he had met people like this when he was a student. But then, he was honest enough with himself to know that he was not in any place at that time to accept friendship from anyone. It was only the caring of first Mrs Hudson and then Lestrade, the time he'd spent with the bizarrely buoyant Mike Stamford, Molly Hooper's gentle support and then meeting his wonderful, damaged soldier that had brought him to a place where he could accept his own humanity and emotions for the first time since he was 15.

The sound of the timer signalled that dinner was ready. Mary drained then mashed the potatoes, adding seasoning, butter and milk. Sherlock heated the plates in the microwave and rescued the sausages and caramelised onions from the oven. John grabbed the jar of gravy granules, adding water from the vegetable pan to the gravy boat and stirring in the onions.

Between them dinner was soon dished up, and they returned to their seats around the kitchen table. Sherlock had produced a rather fine bottle of Valpolicella to accompany the meal. The conversation from before continued as though it had never been interrupted with all three of them laughing and smiling in between mouthfuls of bangers and mash.

Food and wine finished, and plates, pans and glasses either soaking in the sink or awaiting washing on the work surface, the trio retired to the habitual position on the sofa. Not fifteen minutes later, Mrs Hudson called out from the stairs. "Open the door Sherlock. My hands are full." Huffing at little at being disturbed from his place of comfort, Sherlock opened the door to reveal Mrs Hudson bearing a tray covered in a tea towel.

"Here you go my dears. I have spotted dick and a jug of custard. I had some eggs that needed using so I made proper vanilla custard rather than using the packet stuff."

Mary jumped up to grab bowls and spoons. "Oh Mrs Hudson, you're spoiling us. Come and share this with us."

"Thank you dear, but if it's all the same with you I won't. You young ones need your own time, and I've already eaten. I've got a show I want to watch and then I'll be off to my bed. Just drop the tray down in the morning. Now I'll be off. Enjoy."

John stood to see Mrs Hudson out, embracing her and whispering a thank you in her ear before kissing her on the cheek. The sweetly generous lady fluttered and blushed slightly before placing her hand on his cheek. "Anything for my boys, you know that John. Anything for my girl and boys."

-0-0-0-

Both Mary and Sherlock slept with John that night in their bed. John knew that he was likely in for a bad night and was grateful that his loves were trying to mitigate the effects of the day's emotional upheaval without drawing attention to it. It was at times like this that he felt truly loved.

They were curled up in John and Mary's super king size bed. Mary lay to John's left, holding his hand as usual. Sherlock sat on his right, resting his back against the headboard, intent on spending the night on his laptop either researching or reading online scientific journals.

John fell asleep fairly quickly, probably helped by the soporific effects of the suet pudding and the wine. It was just gone three when Sherlock noticed Mary had begun to stir. She was still holding John's left hand, but it was not Mary who was causing the disturbance. Sherlock looked over, using the subtle backlight from his laptop to illuminate his sleeping partners. Mary was responding to John's rhythmic clenching of his left hand around her relaxed fingers. Sherlock sat back against the headboard, hoping that John would settle. The sudden tension in John's body and the frown that wrinkled his still sleeping brow dispelled that wish. John was in the early stages of a nightmare. Sherlock called up recordings he had made of himself playing some of the melodies John responded to when gripped by nightmares. Setting the volume low, he began the playback. At the same time he used the tips of his fingers to gently stroke the forehead and crown of John's head: a technique Sherlock had learnt from John himself who had often used it to soothe Sherlock when his mind was overloaded.

John did not calm immediately, but neither did his dream worsen, then, as suddenly as it had begun, the tension left John's body and he settled with a quiet huff of breath. As John settled, so too did Mary. Sherlock let the violin play for another fifteen minutes to be certain before closing his laptop and deeming it safe for him to snuggle down the bed and allow himself to find sleep. As he closed his eyes and rolled towards his companions Sherlock heard Capt. John Watson's voice from his Mind Palace. "Mission accomplished Lieutenant Holmes. Return to base."


	10. Make or break

**I've never disliked Sgt Donovan, but her standards of professionalism with regard to a certain Consulting Detective have always been appalling. So, with a few hints to Sally's back story, I'm letting DI Noor Panesar attempt to sort things out.**

* * *

Noor Panesar was a happy woman. She was sitting at her own desk in her own office in New Scotland Yard. It may be eight o'clock in the morning and she may be cruising on four hours sleep, but the vanilla latte was hot with an extra shot, the salmon and cream cheese bagel was soft with just the right amount of toasted crunch, and her team had ID'd the driver and vehicle on the Heathrow CCTV. Not only that, but they'd got him meeting other girls off the same flight from Mexico City every month for the last eleven months. They'd also identified the company that owned the vehicle, the driver's place of employment and residence from his driving licence and work visa, and had therefore identified his employer and probable accomplice.

At ten o'clock Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes would give their statements, tying up the loose ends of how Noor had got onto this lead in the first place.

That just left forensics to hopefully provide the final evidence to put a nail firmly in these shits coffin.

Yes, today was looking like a good day.

Until the knock at the door.

Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan entered, her face a picture of barely concealed loathing.

"Morning Sergeant. A good day I think. Quite a result if we can move quickly on the forensics. Dr Watson and Mr Holmes will be in at ten to give their statements. I want you to sit in with me while we take them as they will prove critical to tying this up."

Donovan fidgeted in her chair, her mouth a thin line of anger as though she was trying to stop her thoughts from escaping her lips.

"Out with it." Noor had had enough and wanted to hear what was going on in her bagman's head. She couldn't deal with the situation if she didn't understand it. The bagel now sat like lead in her stomach. She took a swig of coffee, but it was cooling and the syrup tasted sickly and fake. She threw the mostly empty cup in the bin and turned back to the woman who was beginning to seriously piss her off. If Donovan didn't get her head out of her arse soon, Noor was going to ask the DCI to move her on to some other poor sap, or better yet, another division.

"Come on. We've got a busy day, so if you've got something to say, just say it."

"Why did you let that freak into this case?"

Noor sighed and nested her fingers together as they rested on her desk. She could feel the tension building in her shoulders. She felt a pang of sympathy for DCI Lestrade if he'd put up with this all these years.

"I assume you mean Mr Holmes. I listened to him because his deductions were logical at the time and ultimately proved correct."

"But he's a psychopath. He gets off on it. And he has no feeling for the victims or their families. I've seen him reduce grieving relatives to tears just to get information out of them. He's a cold, heartless machine who just does this for the game, and you let him sucker you into letting him on this case."

"THAT'S ENOUGH!"

Noor's hand stung from where she'd slammed her palm onto the desk. She wanted to shake it out, but having done the unforgivable and lost her temper with her subordinate she was not going to compound the error by showing weakness.

"Firstly Sergeant, he did not sucker me. Dr Watson, a fully accredited Met Consultant, called in Sherlock Holmes, another fully accredited Met Consultant, to look at a case. Secondly, Mr Holmes' logic and deductions were perfectly sound and offered an alternative interpretation of the crime which ultimately proved correct. Thirdly, from what I saw of him, Mr Holmes is by no stretch of the imagination a psychopath."

"How can you say that? I've known him for six years and he so obviously gets off on it. You know he laughs, at crime scenes, with the victim laid out at his feet, and he'll grin and giggle like it's all a big joke. Serial killers are his favourite. He calls them Christmas. He's psycho and should be locked up before he kills someone else, because we've all heard the rumours about what he was doing while he was dead!"

Noor sat back and took a deep breath. She felt sure that this deep seated hatred of Sherlock Holmes was more than just professional jealousy.

"What I saw was a very talented detective. At no point did he treat the body of Ximena Mendez with anything but respect. I saw a highly intelligent man examining the subject and the data to pull together a hypothesis. At no time was his behaviour inappropriate." Taking a breath she phrased her next words carefully. "I take it you've never once laughed at a crime scene, shared a joke possibly at the expense of the victim, drunk a cup of coffee or eaten a sandwich while forensics did their job? You've never taken satisfaction and even elation from pulling together all the different threads of a case and seeing the solution or the key piece of evidence?"

"Of course I have ma'am. But he's different. He never used to get paid, he'd just turn up and flounce around, destroying our evidence."

"Really? I can't imagine Lestrade or any other DI would allow someone onto their crime scene who destroyed evidence or who jeopardised the case. They certainly wouldn't invite them in to consult on a regular basis or write them a personal recommendation for accreditation as a Consultant. Or is DCI Lestrade wrong?"

Sally looked shaken. Much as she'd argued with Lestrade over the years, she'd never once questioned his professional competence, except about … Holmes.

"I think, perhaps, Sergeant, that you have a virtual Sherlock Holmes in your head that you compare the actual man against. It's quite obvious how you see Holmes in your head. You just told me. The unfeeling psychopath who cares for nothing and no-one, who just does this for kicks. And I guess you take pride in telling anyone who listens exactly what you think." Donovan flinched. "Yes, I saw the interviews you gave to the papers at the time he faked his death. Your belief that he'd faked evidence and interfered with crime scenes, even committed crimes himself so he could solve them. You really helped do a number on him. Except my understanding is that a very expensive task force investigated every shred of evidence and every case Holmes had anything to do with and completely exonerated him of any wrong doing. Yet you still persist in believing your mental picture of him instead of looking at the evidence before you. If this is how you conduct police work Donovan I am seriously questioning whether you are in the right job."

Donovan blanched.

"I am going to make a suggestion to you which you can take or leave. The choice is yours. You can come into Mr Holmes's interview with me and ask what questions you like within reason. The only condition is that you must go in with an open mind, and you must seriously consider his answers and behaviour as though he were a total stranger to you. No pre-conceptions, no virtual Holmes. Just a pure analysis of the witness and the evidence before you. Can you do that?"

Sally shrugged. "Do I have an alternative?"

Noor sighed. "Of course. You can go back to your desk, write out your resignation letter which will be on my desk within the hour, hand in your credentials, collect your things and leave the Metropolitan Police with immediate effect. "

Donovan's shock was obvious. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she controlled herself. Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes, but she angrily shook them away.

"The choice is yours Sergeant. Will you be joining me in the interview room at ten, or shall I assign another member of the team while you clear your desk?"

"I'll be there Ma'am."

Sally stormed out of the office and to the ladies loos. She hadn't smoked since her teens but at this moment she craved a cigarette. She thought about storming into Lestrade's office and demanding reassignment. How dare he palm her off on this bitch after all the years they'd worked together. She should be a DI too, not this cow's bagman. Where did she get off on lecturing Sally about Sherlock fucking Holmes, after all the years she'd watched him poncing around crime scenes, more recently with the delusional John Watson in tow telling him how brilliant and wonderful he is. Lestrade was the best DI in the Met with the highest clear up rate. He didn't need the Freak. Like Lestrade and Sally couldn't have solved most of those cases, assuming time and budget constraints hadn't pushed them further down the growing pile of new crimes until they went cold. Oh.

As Sally's anger cooled she began to think more clearly about what DI Panesar had said. Sally knew the Freak got results. She'd seen him sit with a pile of cold cases, some dating back over forty years, and just by reading the reports he could give them new leads, many of which panned out. In some cases he even identified the perpetrator. And she'd seen him at crime scenes, spotting crucial evidence that even Anderson had grudgingly admitted probably would have been missed or ruled insignificant. She'd also seen the results of the Met inquiry after the whole Richard Brook/Moriarty debacle.

Washing her face with cool water, before grabbing a paper towel to dab her still burning eyes dry, Sally stared hard at herself in the mirror over the basin.

"Well Sally, you know he's an arse. He is rude, arrogant and condescending. He swanks around the crime scene like he owns the place and we are his idiot minions, expected to kowtow to his every whim. But is he really worth losing my career over?"

Sally knew that the answer to that was a resounding no. All she'd ever wanted to be was a detective, ever since she'd watched Miami Vice with her foster mum when she was a kid and realised that people her colour didn't have to be only criminals or victims. That there was another choice. A choice that she'd worked damn hard to achieve. And if that meant that she had to sit through a witness interview and only look at the evidence and not at that stuck up git's stupid face then she could do this.

She ran her fingers through her hair, pushed her jacket sleeves up to her elbows, turned up her jacket collar and straightened the waistband of her skirt. Looking at her reflection with some satisfaction she growled "Come on Tubbs, let's do this thing." Before turning on her heel and marching back to her desk and the case.

-0-0-0-

Dr Watson and Mr Holmes sat side by side on one side of the table in the interview room. DI Panesar switched on the tape machine whilst DS Donovan started the video camera recording.

"Witness Statements from Consultant Dr John Watson and Consultant Mr Sherlock Holmes in the matter of the murder of Ximena Mendez. These statements are being recorded and filmed according to Metropolitan Police standing orders. Detective Inspector Noor Panesar and Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan are present. So Doctor Watson, do you want to start?"

John immediately launched into a long and deeply technical description of the victim's arrival at A&amp;E, the triage, the removal of her clothing and her preparation for emergency surgery. His report was detached and almost cold, Sally noted. Not like the man she knew at all. This was the report of a former doctor and Captain with the RAMC, and she was surprised at how unemotional he seemed. This man who called Sherlock Holmes brilliant, who could smile so easily, who could giggle like a school boy or belly laugh until he was bent double, tears streaming down his face, seemed so surprisingly … professional.

"Why did you contact Mr Holmes?"

"Because the Constable who brought her in was wrong. We were triaging this young woman who was fighting desperately for her life, and he was stood the other side of the curtain laughing about her cloths, her brightly coloured boots and saying how, if he was going to do a Sweeny Todd he wouldn't pick the mingers like her. His words, not mine. And he was wrong. I could see at once this was not a random attack. It was obvious that murder was not the primary motive. If he only wanted her dead he would have just slit her throat. Her attacker didn't expect her to survive, after all he left her to bleed out with massive trauma to her abdominal cavity and the early stages of shock on top of a cocaine overdose, but he couldn't be bothered to simply kill her. So something other than murder was the motive. Also the weapon used was unusual and, given the location where the victim was found, was likely a straight razor. Again, if murder was the motive why not take your own weapon. So the attacker needed a knife urgently, but with nothing to hand, broke in to somewhere where he knew he would find what he wanted. All this said crime of desperation and opportunity. The victim was the intended target and her death was not as important as her evisceration. Given that the wounds were obviously made by someone with no medical training, not organ harvesting. My feeling was drug smuggling. I'm sorry DI Panesar, but I don't know you and I didn't want to waste time. I knew it was unlikely the woman would survive surgery, and time was of the essence so I called Sherlock."

"I think you made the right call in this case Doctor, although next time I'd prefer you call me first and I'll call in the Consultants." Noor smirked.

"Yes Ma'am." John smiled and Noor felt certain, if he hadn't been seated he'd have jokily snapped to attention and saluted.

"And her clothes? You supervised their removal and had them bagged for evidence?"

"Yes. Of course all the attending staff were gloved and wore overalls. They know the precedures for handling evidence. I had all her clothing cut from her body so we could assess and begin to treat her injuries. I instructed the nurse to ensure any clothing labels were visible through the evidence bags along with any obvious blood traces. By this time Constable Patterson had arrived with a colleague of his, Constable Okocha I believe, who accompanied the patient to surgery. Patterson stayed with me and the evidence which we secured in my office. When Sherlock arrived he studied the clothing through the evidence bags. As an added precaution he also wore surgical gloves. Constable Patterson was in attendance throughout the examination. When I received notification of the patient's death, Sherlock and I left Constable Patterson with the evidence and made our way to theatre. I believe Patterson radioed in to confirm you were on your way. We were with the body for perhaps three or four minutes before you arrived. Again we were gloved. I don't believe Sherlock touched the body although I did move her arms to show him the injuries to her wrists and hands and I pointed out the wounds to her abdomen. He had just spotted the evidence in her stomach when you arrived. Constable Okocha remained in the corridor."

"Very well Doctor. Is there anything else you wish to add?"

"Yes. I doubt she could hear, but before she was transferred to surgery, Nurse Wilson told her she was beautiful and should keep fighting."

Sally suddenly felt an unexpected pang of guilt. The callous behaviour of one of their own had prompted a nurse to say that to a dying girl. Sally noticed the Doctor's left hand was clenched tightly where it rested on the table. She also noticed Sherlock briefly lay his own hand over that fist and watched the tension release. She remembered how many times she'd unconsciously noticed Dr Watson clenching and unclenching his fist when she and Sherlock were in one of their slanging matches. Had she been unknowingly responsible for causing the doctor pain? And why had she been so determined to drive a wedge between the detective and his flatmate. She'd told herself it was to save the doctor from being used, but was it really to hurt the detective? And had it hurt the doctor too? Was she really that petty and vindictive? She began to wonder if perhaps she had learnt more about being a cast iron bitch from her older sister than she liked to admit.

"And Mr Holmes, please can you give an account of your actions from the time Dr Watson called?"

Sherlock's evidence was as expected. Precise, concise and, if she was totally honest with herself, very clever. Sally watched closely throughout, scrutinizing the man before her, but trying to keep an open mind. She didn't feel the need to ask many questions, only clarifying points of evidence or joining the dots between leaps of insight so that, should this ever be needed, the deductions told a cohesive story.

By 11:20 they were done, and Sally felt exhausted. But this was no time to sit back. They had evidence to chase up, hopefully, arrests to make before this was over. She was glad she'd decided to sit in on the interview. It had given her a lot to think about, when she had the time. She was beginning to suspect that DI Panesar wasn't the cow she'd thought.

-0-0-0-

It was close to four thirty and Noor had just got off the phone to her husband, Adarshpal, to let him know it was doubtful she'd be home much before midnight, again. She needed a coffee and not the muck out of the vending machine. Grabbing her mobile, coat and purse she walked out of her office fully intending to visit the Sandwich Shop behind the Yard to pick up sandwiches and decent coffee. She rather hoped they'd still have some soup left over from lunch. She needed something with vitamins to get her through the evening. As she closed her office door behind her, she spotted Donovan at her desk, head bowed, engrossed in something.

"Sergeant Donovan, grab your coat and walk with me. I think we need caffeine."

Sally's head bobbed up in surprise, her curls bouncing and her eyes wide. "Yes Ma'am. Be right there."

The two women met at the lift just as the doors opened. They entered in silence and turned to face the door as Sally pushed the floor button.

Noor decided to open the conversation. This was make or break. By the time they returned to the office she would either have a competent bagman she could work with, or a vacancy.

"How do you think the interviews went?"

Sally bit her lip, considering her answer. "Well, I think. Dr Watson was obviously right to call in Holmes. Should have called you first Ma'am, but given the behaviour of our constable I can see why he didn't. I was going to have a word with him about professional standards and maybe arrange a refresher course on crime scene etiquette, but I thought I'd better talk to you first given … everything."

"I think that disciplining the constables needs a Sergeant's touch don't you Donovan?" Noor felt a slight twitch of her lips and a lifting of some of the tension.

"Yes Ma'am."

The lift doors opened and they made their way towards the Sandwich Shop. "I'll get these. So what else did you get from the interviews? I'm thinking particularly about what we discussed earlier."

Sally took a few minutes to consider, using the DI's ordering of food and coffee to buy her much needed thinking time. She then ordered her own coffee and a sandwich whilst the DI paid for both orders. They sat at a table by the window while they waited for their takeaway orders to be brought to them.

"I think I was wrong." Sally never thought she'd say it, but she had to be honest with herself. She'd held on to her own image of Sherlock Holmes for so long that she hadn't seen how much he'd changed and just how skewed that image had become. She'd clung to it like some grotesque talisman, her constant in a changing world; she wasn't even sure if he ever had been like that, not really. After they'd left the interview room she'd wracked her brains trying to remember the last time he'd retorted to one of her barbs, and realised it was before his fall, before all the pain and before John Watson had been broken.

They'd spent the afternoon chasing up the evidence, before bringing in a Mexican on a student visa and his American bodyguard for questioning on the strength of the CCTV footage. They were being held in custody overnight while alibis, trace evidence and DNA samples were tested. They had enough to get a warrant to search the car, but since they already knew the victim had been in the vehicle, but not killed there it was doubtful it would give them anything. The forensics team were going over the interior overnight. Maybe they'd find blood from after they'd left the barber shop, but the car had been thoroughly cleaned recently so they'd have to get lucky.

Sally had only sat back down at her desk about thirty minutes before DI Panesar had asked her to get coffee. She'd been reviewing the witness testimonies, but in the back of her mind she'd spent the afternoon stewing on what she'd seen in that interview room.

"I think you were right Ma'am. If he hadn't been there we'd have lost the evidence of balloons in her stomach and even though we probably would have got on to her nationality, we were working on the premise of her being a random victim who lived in the UK, rather than a targeted victim who had just arrived. I doubt we'd have found out her name yet, let alone have brought in her attackers for questioning. I still think his attitude to the victims and their families stinks, but you're right about his ability to piece together the evidence."

"What you need to remember Donovan is that none of us can afford to get emotionally invested in the victims of crime. That way lies madness. Surgeons can't afford to see their patients as anything more than a body, scientists see their subjects as nothing more than data points and we need to see victims as just that, a subject of crime. When I first made Sergeant in Manchester I spent a year assigned to tracking down a paedophile ring. It was the hardest year of my life and I spent the first month alternating between sobbing and vomiting. I barely slept and could hardly eat. By the end of the month I was a wreck. My DI, a hardnosed old bastard pushing retirement called Baxter, sat me down and told me a few home truths. He pointed out that distancing ourselves from the victims did not mean stripping them of their humanity, or not caring about them, it simply meant removing the emotional connection from them so we could do our jobs effectively. The victim deserves our best. Crying with them doesn't help, but doing our job and solving the case does. You can't solve a case and keep cool enough to not jeopardise the conviction if you're emotionally compromised, and by the end of that first month I was well and truly compromised. He gave me a long weekend off to get my head back on and then I was straight back in at the deep end. He was right. There is a damn good reason why it's called professional detachment."

Sally listened, sipped the coffee that had now arrived, and nodded her head in agreement. She could understand where her DI was coming from, having been in not dissimilar positions herself, both as a police officer and in her own childhood.

"Grab you sandwich and we'll head back. As for Holmes, I think he has professional detachment in spades, but I think he is personally _very _attached." Donovan let out a small gasp of surprise. "What? You didn't notice that little quirk of a smile when I congratulated Dr Watson for spotting the discrepancies on the victim, or whenever we mentioned the victim's name. I think it's very important to both of them that she isn't a Jane Doe. In fact, I think a lot of things are important to our Mr Holmes, especially protection of his friends. Didn't he sacrifice his professional reputation, good name and life to protect his friends, including the DCI, from a criminal mastermind? I don't think that was the act of a psychopath or even a sociopath. There's not many men who would make that kind of sacrifice for their own family, let alone friends. No, I think our Mr Holmes feels a lot more than he cares to admit, and anyone who has him as a friend is very lucky indeed."

As they walked to the lift DI Panesar's phone rang. She answered quickly, listening to the caller and making appropriate replies before a smile lit up her face. "Yes, get it down to forensics immediately. Tell them to check for blood type and DNA. Top priority. I need those results ASAP, we've got less than fourteen hours left before we have to release. Oh, and good spot Sergeant. Well done."

Entering the lift, the DI still smiled broadly as she put her phone away. "That was the Custody Sergeant. He was logging our prisoners' belongings. You know that fancy gold watch the bodyguard was wearing, the one with a chunky gold bracelet. Well, when the Sarge was logging it he spotted what looks like traces of blood in the links and under the winder. He's getting forensics on to it now. If it's our victim's we've got them, hook, line and sinker."

* * *

**I very much doubt DI Panesar could have forced Donovan out like she threatened, and I have no idea what the standard procedure is for taking witness interviews. I'm working on the principle that the videoing and recording of Sherlock's deductions and statements is a special procedure put in place for him. And at the end of the day, this is an AU.**

**Congratulations to me - this is now my longest ever story.**


	11. Darren

**Author's Note:**

**Apologies. My muse was on a bit more of a bender than I thought.**

**Having got my writing brain back in some semblance of order I have a plan of how to proceed. Thank you for waiting for me.**

**Please feel free to let me know what you think, and if you have any suggestions for where to take this story feel free to let me know.**

**Trigger warning - mentions of child abuse, cancer and people/sex trafficking in this chapter**

* * *

It was not unexpected that John took a while to find his feet again after the upset of the Ximena Mendez case. He had five days before he was back on duty at the hospital. He was worried. That was five days to stew.

He seemed to be sleeping OK thanks to Mary and Sherlock. He woke each morning with Mary's hand in his and with the still warm space where Sherlock had so recently spent the night. And every morning, when he wandered, sleepy eyed, into the kitchen, Sherlock would have a steaming cup of breakfast tea ready for him and breakfast on the go. The first morning after their time at Scotland Yard, Sherlock had made Scotch pancakes with honey and strawberries. He was just tucking in to a plate, his stomach suddenly feeling unusually empty, when Mary bustled in fresh from the shower.

"Ooohh, pancakes. Sherlock, you're a star. Got a plate for me?" Mary leant forward to place kisses on each of her men's cheeks whilst she hung her suit jacket over the back of the chair.

Sherlock happily handed Mary a freshly made up plate of pancakes while she poured herself a coffee and proceeded to tuck a napkin into her blouse collar.

"I've got a busy day today and a finance meeting with the senior staff. I can't afford to arrive covered in honey and strawberry stains. Oh Sherlock, these are delicious. You're spoiling us."

"Nothing more than either of you deserve. I was already up and it's just chemistry, not rocket science."

"Still, you're a genius." Having scooped another forkful of gooeyness into her mouth, Mary looked between her partners, a flicker of concern on her face. "So, what have my boys got planned for today?"

John set down his mug and prepared to say that he really didn't know, but Sherlock leapt into the void left by the question. "I want John to work on his observation technique. He has improved significantly and is applying my methods diligently, but I think he could do with more practice. I think we'll spend the day observing and deducing strangers. Is that agreeable John?"

John knew he was being molly-coddled but he could do nothing but love his partner and his wife for making the effort to keep him out of his own mind while his subconscious processed all the events of the past few days.

"Yes, that sounds like a plan. What about your cases?"

"I've nothing that needs my immediate attention. I think, as the weather is pleasant and the forecast is good for the rest of the week, we'll spend a few days just walking the streets of London deducing whoever we come across. What do you think?"

Mary smirked as John happily agreed to the plan. She knew Sherlock could be a devious sod when he wanted to get his own way, but she couldn't fault him for his protectiveness of John. She knew the stress of the case had caused John's leg to twinge as it did when he was stressed. Gentle exercise would do him the world of good and deducing would keep his mind occupied.

-0-0-0-

It had been a pleasant few days wandering around London. The walked down the Mall and through St James's Park, the bustling main shopping streets of Oxford Street, Regent's Street, Bond Street and Piccadilly. They'd surveyed the visitors to Leicester Square, China Town and Soho, and observed the shoppers, entertainers and traders of Covent Garden. They'd visited the City identifying bankers, stock brokers, office staff and lawyers, before crossing the Millennium Bridge from St Pauls to The Tate Modern where the visitors held their attention as much as the art.

Now, on the third day of their deductive odyssey, they had meandered along the Strand, past Charing Cross station and were heading through Trafalgar Square in a slow progression towards the National Gallery.

John knew something was up when Sherlock suddenly withdrew his phone and began positioning John for a photograph. He knew it wasn't him that Sherlock wanted to capture, and suspected it was the two men of Eastern European origin, possibly Romanian who appeared to have some interest in a young lad with a back pack who had probably just arrived at Charring Cross. Pictures taken, Sherlock indicated to John to keep an eye on the boy, who was headed towards an alley to the side of the Gallery, the same side road where John had encountered Raz.

Sherlock finished messing with his phone, then joined John in heading off the boy. The two men were also manoeuvring towards the boy. It was clear that their intentions did not have the best interest of the target in mind. John threw his shoulders back and marched briskly forward like a little tank as he barged past the men, apologising none too sincerely, before bustling in to the boy causing him to lose his footing.

Grabbing the lads arm to hold him steady, John began apologising profusely, brushing the boys jacket sleeve and generally drawing as much attention as possible to the scene while Sherlock ensured that the two men were kept occupied until a couple of Mycroft's people could tag them.

"I'm so sorry. My fault, totally my fault. I really should look where I'm going. I probably should have gone to Specsavers, haha. The wife always says I should watch myself." John continued to fuss and keep the boy distracted until Sherlock came over and gave the all clear. John's blustering military gentleman act immediately dropped and affable Dr John Watson made his appearance.

"I really am sorry about that. We needed to make a show. You'd picked up some undesirable attention so we needed a bit of a diversion. I'm Dr John Watson and this is the detective, Sherlock Holmes."

The boy looked between the two men with a combination of bewilderment and fear. "I, I'm Darren, err, Brown. Yes, I'm Darren Brown."

Sherlock smiled. "Don't worry. You don't have to tell us your real name if you don't want to. I'm assuming you've just arrived from Kent. Folkestone or at least very near. You've left home, a bold decision at 14, no 15. You felt you had no choice. From the way you flinched when John was brushing your jacket I'd say domestic abuse from a parent, probably your father. No, step-father. You have n family you trust to turn to so you've decided that the streets of London is the safest place to be. Unfortunately, if the two men who had been following you since you walked out of the station had got hold of you, you'd never have been safe again."

The boy looked scared. "How … did you know that? About me? Did someone tell you? Did Terry send you to find me?"

"No. It's what I do. I'm a detective. I usually work with Scotland Yard, but today John and I are just having fun. I observed your behaviour and deduced where you had come from. Some of it was from your reactions to my observations, but mostly it was from your clothes, the backpack with a Folkestone Invicta FC badge, and how you flinched when John caught the bruises on your shoulders."

The boy looked pale and bewildered. John realised that he probably had little money and had likely not eaten much today. "How do you fancy a cup of tea and a fry up? There's a little café just around the corner that does the best full English I've ever tasted. Our treat. And we can work out what's going to happen from here."

The boy was still wide eyed and bewildered, but brightened at the mention of food. He nodded slowly, gaining one of John's broad smiles. It was only a matter of minutes before they were sat in the café, John and Sherlock on one side of the table and Darren on the other, his backpack on the chair beside him. Food had been ordered; even Sherlock had ordered poached eggs on toast; and each had a mug of tea.

"So Darren, I suppose your mind is made up. You're not going back."

"No. You won't make me will you? Terry's a bastard. I never knew me real dad. Mum never told me and there's no name on my birth certificate. Mum and Terry got married when I was 8. It was fine for a while. He'd smack me if I was naughty or if I broke anything, but that's what parents do innit. Then Mum got cancer, ovarian I think they said. It was so quick. She was complaining about feeling tired and two months later she was in the hospice. Terry wouldn't let me visit. Said it would upset me. I never got to say goodbye."

The lad looked so young at that moment as a tear rolled down his cheek. Sherlock passed him a napkin from the dispenser on the table to blow his nose while John rubbed Darren's forearm by way of comfort.

"Mum had told me, before she went in the hospice, that it would be OK. Terry would take care of me. She was wrong. After she died Terry treated me like shit. I only went to school to keep the Social off his back. Other than that I had to stay at home. Cooking, cleaning, and punch bag. Mum's been gone for four months and it's been hell. I've got no family y'see. Mum was an only child and my Gran died three years ago. Terry said it was him or Social Services. I'd already started planning to run when I heard him talking to someone on the phone. I couldn't hear everything but it sounded like he was going to sell me. I knew I had to go. So y'see I can't go back. Don't send me back. Please."

John looked at the stricken youngster. "Don't worry Darren. We'll think of something. He may not look it, but this daft loon's a genius, so between us I'm sure we'll be able to come up with something." The waitress arrived at this moment with plates of food, looking around to work out which meal was who's. John indicated Darren. "Full English and toast over here please. Come on Darren, dig in and we'll work out what's best to be done."

The table was relatively quiet for the next fifteen minutes whilst plates were emptied and tea drunk. Even Sherlock cleared his plate of eggs and toast, much to John's amazement. Another ten minutes and another round of teas resulted in a plan and the arrival of Bill Wiggins, much to John's surprise, but not, apparently, Sherlock's.

"Ahh, Darren. This is Bill Wiggins. He's part of my homeless network. He helps run a safe-house for homeless teens in Camden. I own the building and everyone is vetted. If you're OK with it, Bill will take you there. We'll come too to settle you in and so John can make sure your injuries are not too serious. You can stay indefinitely. There's a school nearby where we can get you registered so you can continue with your education. You'll be safe, fed and taken care of. Obviously this is unofficial so you can't tell anyone, and you won't be able to contact Terry, not that you'd want to."

John realised that Darren was still worried. "Think of it like going in to Witness Protection on those American shows. You'll be safe, but if you contact anyone from your old life or give the game away then everyone in the safe-house could be in danger. Do you understand?"

"Yeah. And I'll be safe?"

Bill smiled. "Yeah. It's a clean house and they're all good kids, like a big family. No drugs, no fieving an no booze. An we get to help Sherlock here every now an then, with the crime solving an everyfing."

"Bill and the other helpers are in touch with me, so if anything untoward happens we can get help to you straight away. Despite his rough looks…"

Bill let out an affronted "Oi!"

Sherlock continued. "As I was saying, despite his rough looks, Bill is a passable chemist and fairly adept at observation. He is one of my best sources of intelligence on the streets and he has helped train many of the homeless network in information gathering. An invaluable resource in my crime solving. You don't have to, but if this is something that may interest you, I'm sure Bill will be able to help."

Darren's face lit up at the thought. A new home, new friends, safety and possibly helping solve crimes. It was all brilliant.

While John led the rejuvenated Darren towards the street to hail a taxi to take them to Camden via Baker Street so John could collect his medical bag, Sherlock drew Bill aside for a brief talk.

"Keep a close eye on Darren. He was being followed by people traffickers. We managed to prevent the snatch and I've sent their details to Mycroft and Lestrade. It looks like they may be part of the sex ring we're after. They are under surveillance and will hopefully lead us to bigger fish. In the meantime, make sure Darren is protected until we know he is not a specific target."

"Yeah boss. Will do."


	12. Of cabs and tea

**John and Sherlock discuss child abductions,child abuse and homelessness - you have been warned (but nothing graphic)**

* * *

The trip to Camden was uneventful. Darren's eyes barely left the window as John pointed out landmarks and places of interest. Finally the cab pulled over outside a large, Georgian end-of-terrace house opposite a small park in a residential back-street of Camden.

Sherlock swept out of the cab, leaving Darren and Wiggins to follow whilst John paid.

Darren's eyes nearly popped out of his head as he realised that the imposing building before him was his new home. "I'll be staying here?"

Sherlock spun round to face the teen as Bill unlocked the front door. "Yes, this is your new home. Lots of bedrooms, a large kitchen and a small garden out the back. How many are staying here at the moment Wiggins?"

"With myself and Gina, we've got eleven. I'll introduce you to them this evening Darren. Most of them are at school at the moment. The youngest came to us six months ago. That's Bridget and she's thirteen. The oldest is Heena. She's just turned nineteen and will be moving out soon. She's got herself a place at Lancaster Uni to study social work. Gina is the other supervisor, like me. If you ever need anything, you come to me or Gina and we'll see you right. Now, stop standing on the doorstep like a spare part. Come in and we'll get you settled into your own room and let the Doc check you over before the rest get home."

It took another hour to get Darren settled. John was happy to report that, whilst the bruising was extensive and painful, there were few lacerations and with a few weeks of care there would be no permanent damage.

They said their goodbyes, leaving Darren in the kitchen nursing a cola whilst Bill took him through the house rules.

Sherlock stepped out of the front door and into a waiting cab. John, having checked the front door was properly shut, grinned at his partner. "You called for that cab didn't you? There is no way you would be able to hail a cab in this quiet street."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile. "Well of course I did John. Even I have my limitations and we've got no time to dilly dally. DI Panesar texted me that she wants to brief us on the latest developments. She's meeting us at home at six."

-0-0-0-

The ride back to Baker Street through heavy London traffic was quiet. John was glad for what they'd managed to do for Darren, but the thought of Ximena Mendez clouded his mind. They'd not heard anything since they'd made their statements and a brief text from Noor Panesar to say there was progress. He hoped that she'd caught the girl's killers and located her family, if she had any.

His left hand twitched where it rested on the seat between them. Without either man moving his eyes from their respective views out of the cab windows, John found his hand wrapped in the soothing warmth of Sherlock's long fingers. The twitching calmed and then stopped. John let out a gentle breath as his body began to relax.

The cab made surprisingly good time through London's heavy traffic, depositing them back in Baker Street with over half an hour to spare before their appointment. As always, Sherlock was out of the cab and up the stairs first. John, delayed by paying the cabby then closing the front door, was a little way behind. Having hung his coat on the hook he turned towards the kitchen, ready to switch on the kettle for the obligatory cup of tea, only to find that Sherlock had beaten him to it and was already refilling the kettle with fresh water from the tap.

John quirked and eyebrow in surprise. "Not that I'm complaining or anything, but what prompted this sudden burst of altruism? You never make the tea unless Mary bullies you."

Sherlock turned, placing the kettle back on its stand to start boiling, whilst effecting a shocked face at his partner. "John how can you say that? I am perfectly capable of making tea. In fact I do it often, just usually when you're out. What? You think that those empty cups you find on the coffee table when you get back from the hospital magically appeared there by the hand of some house elf, or perhaps by the grace of out not-housekeeper? I'm wounded. I simply prefer for you to make the tea when you're home."

"And why would that be? Too busy in your mind palace?" John mocked a grouchy face but his eyes sparkled with mirth. A sight that warmed Sherlock's heart, as John had been distinctly lacking in laughter recently.

Sherlock smiled before dropping his eyes to the floor and looking abashed, like a child caught out in a fib. His voice was low and quiet as he mumbled "B'coz yours is b'ter."

John leaned forward, his head turned slightly as though he couldn't hear what had been said. "No, didn't catch that. Say it again."

Sherlock grinned as he stepped forward and held his friend's shoulders. "Because John, your tea is better. I don't know how you do it, but you make those common or garden tea bags produce an infusion that is the nectar of the gods. Satisfied?"

John grinned and Sherlock glowed. "Oh yeah. So much better. That wasn't so hard was it? And thanks for the compliment. I will never begrudge making you tea again … within reason. I'm not giving you carte blanche to demand my tea making skills willy nilly. I have to replenish these magic fingers every now and then you know." And he wiggled his fingers onto Sherlock's waist, lightly tickling him, causing a burst of laughter from Sherlock and a release of some of the previous days' tensions from John.

The hug that enfolded John and imbued him with comfort and peace only broke then the kettle boiled and the important business of making tea resumed.

Sat in their respective armchairs, mugs of tea wrapped in slowly warming fingers, John looked at his companion. "So, you run a hostel for homeless kids."

Sherlock paused for a moment before replying. "I have done for some years, out of my trust fund, and with some assistance from Mycroft who smooths out the bureaucratic complications. Keeps the worst of Social Services at bay and arranges the school registrations. He's also made sure that the local police are aware of the priority of any incident at the house, and we have security from one of his recommended contacts on 24 hour call out. We have a Social Worker and a Child Psychologist available as well. As you can imagine, many of these children have not had the best life experiences and often need help to get themselves together. And of course, Gina and Wiggins live in as permanent carers to ensure that there is no trouble and that these kids have some semblance of a stable family life."

John smiled as he stared into the little wisps of vapour still rising from his tea, happy in the knowledge that his friend, no matter what how he'd described himself in the past, really did care about others, and to a much greater extent than most people. Sociopath, my arse.

"I take it they're all part of your homeless network."

"Not so much. I prefer to keep the youngsters away from the criminals and off the streets as much as possible. I saw too much of that myself …" Sherlock's voice tailed off as he gave a haunted look at the mug in his hands.

"When you were on the streets you mean? It's OK Sherlock, I know something about that part of your life. It can't have been easy living like that. You must have seen some shocking things. Experienced some too no doubt. It's good that you're doing something to spare the younger ones that kind of life, and giving them a chance at something better."

"The streets are no place for children, but many of these kids feel they have no choice. Imagine what their home lives must have been like to force them onto the streets where they become prey to not only cold and hunger, but crime, drugs and sexual predators."

"Ah yes, that brings us to Darren. You said something to Wiggins about keeping a close eye on him and keeping him safe. Do you think those men were specifically targeting him or was he just easy pickings?"

"I think he was easy pickings. Young, bewildered, and straight off the train with no money and no-one to turn to. At least I hope so, although it's not unheard of for some low-life's to sell their children just to make themselves some extra cash. No, this team were probably watching Charing Cross looking for targets. They would have whisked him away to be the plaything of perverts and he'd have been dead inside of a year, either killed outright or too damaged to keep alive."

John pulled a brief moue of disgust. "And those men, you said you'd contacted Mycroft."

"Yes. There is a people trafficking ring operating in central London specialising in kids like Darren. The Met and the City of London Police have failed spectacularly in finding any real evidence. They either find unidentified bodies or pick up low level criminals who have no knowledge of the wider organisation. The teams seem to operate as cells, much like terrorist groups. Small units of between four and six who report to a single contact without knowing anything beyond their own cell. Even the children they snatch, mostly run-aways or children so neglected that their parents can't even be bothered to report them missing, are passed on through some sort of transfer network. They've been virtually impossible to crack. It's got to the stage where it's now a cross agency operation, with MI5 assisting the police and Interpol looking at the international connections. I wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft had persuaded someone to get MI6 involved."

John looked surprised. "So, it's that big? Jeez."

"Yes. It's thought that children are being snatched across Europe. Some appear to be retained for the domestic market and it's thought that other children are sent to the more affluent markets in the Middle and Far East where blond hair and blue eyes command a premium. Age doesn't seem to be an issue. Any child between five and fifteen seems to be a target, as long as there is no-one to kick up a fuss when they disappear. There is also a suspicion that some of the money is being funnelled into funding terrorism. As we all know, no matter how clean-living or devout powerful men like to appear to the outside world, behind closed doors they can be as debased as any devil."

"Hence MI5 and MI6's involvement. Christ. What about the US? Are they involved?"

"I don't know for sure, but is wouldn't surprise me if the FBI and CIA are involved. After all, that is a huge pool of exactly the type of children they want, and has direct access to the Far East."

"So how do we fit in all of this?"

Sherlock felt a warm glow that John had included himself in the question. He knew that crimes against children always caused John considerable pain, especially now as he was recovering from Ximena's murder. That he would volunteer to include himself in the investigation was heart-warming.

"Obviously we need to find the low level cells to try to find a way up the ladder to some of the regional controllers. Cyber Crime units in the Met, MI5 and Interpol are scouring the web trying to find a short cut into the higher echelons of the organisation, but until then, starting with the small fish is the only way. My homeless network are helping, although it is harder than normal. Usually the homeless are invisible and can go almost anywhere unnoticed, but with these people their targets _are_ the homeless, which makes my network more visible than usual. That said, they're not interested in anyone above mid-teens, so I've asked the obviously older members to discretely gather information, and to keep an eye out for any children that could be targets so that they can be kept safe. So far we've identified about twenty low level operatives in London alone. They're put under surveillance in the hope of leading to the next link in the command structure."

"So, were those two today already known or new faces?"

"One I recognised from intelligence reports, but the other I hadn't seen before."

"Good, good. We made a difference today then."

"Yes, Captain Watson and his sharp elbows definitely made a difference today, especially for Darren."

Sherlock smiled as John positively glowed.

John looked into his now empty mug, glanced at his watch then rose from his armchair heading for the kitchen "Want a top up Sherlock?"

"Yes. Make a pot John. I believe DI Panesar has just arrived and she's not alone."


	13. Sally works it out

**A chapter from Sally Donovan's point of view.**

**Redemption continues. It takes strength to admit you're wrong and courage to ask forgiveness.**

* * *

Sally Donovan did not want to be here.

It was just gone five when DI Panesar emerged from her office and called across the busy office "Donovan, with me." as she marched toward to corridor and the lifts. Sally just had time to grab her coat and make sure her phone and notebook were in her handbag before she raced out of the door in her DI's wake. The lift pinged and the doors parted as she reached the DI's side.

"We're going to Baker Street to brief Mr Holmes and Dr Watson about the Mendez case."

Sally started to tense up, ready to question why witnesses should be briefed on the status of the case. DI Panesar pushed the button for the ground floor and then continued speaking, cutting Sally off before she could question her superior's decision. "They are Met Consultants and provided key information that cracked the case open. The least we can do is keep them apprised of the situation as a professional courtesy if nothing else. Don't you agree, Sergeant?"

Sally paused for a moment, squashing down the automatic bile that rose in her throat at the thought of the Freak receiving professional courtesy. No, he was a professional and, despite her own long held dislike of the man, was an accepted member of the Metropolitan Police team. Much as she remembered the arrogant junkie who'd hung around their crime scenes, it seemed that Sherlock Holmes was not that man any more.

Trying not to let her own misgivings sound in her voice, she bit out a perhaps overly strident "Yes Ma'am." unsure of who she was trying to convince more, her DI or herself.

DI Panesar led the way to her allocated car, unlocking it as she approached. Fastening her seat belt, she again spoke without looking at her Sergeant. "Is this going to be a problem Sally?"

"No Ma'am."

"Good. Make sure it isn't." Knowing her Sergeant was struggling to cope with the fundamental shift in attitude towards the Consultant that was being demanded of her, Noor softened her voice slightly. "Sally, I know this is hard and I understand why you formed the opinions you did. I'm not a fool and I know there is history between you. But at the end of the day, Holmes is a valuable resource to the Met. He helps save lives. And I don't believe he is the same man you once knew. I've seen the reports, and I can only imagine the hell he went through having his life and reputation ripped away from him by a criminal. Being forced to fake his own death in front of his friend in order to save those he cared about. I've spoken to DCI Lestrade and know some of the things not only Holmes, but Dr Watson had to endure at the hands of Moriarty and his gang over several years. Things that didn't make it into official reports. Things that would have destroyed lesser men."

Sally's head snapped to the DI. She'd never heard about any incidents involving Holmes and Moriarty other than those in official records. Why hadn't Greg told her? The knowledge that Greg couldn't trust her shook her badly. However, it was the thought of a moment to understand why and that shook her even more.

The DI had continued talking whilst Sally's mind had been running full tilt over the new information. "So Sally, I need you to be professional. If you feel the need to better understand a decision I make with regards Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, then I expect you to come to me first, privately. I expect genuine discussion, not here-say and personal opinions. I am happy to listen to your reasoning, but I will not, and I repeat, _I will not_ have bad mouthing and ranting. You are a professional, and if you want to progress in this service you need to get your temper and prejudices under control. Is that understood?"

"Yes Ma'am."

As they pulled out of the New Scotland Yard car park and into traffic, Sally pondered what the DI had said. What events had Greg known about but she hadn't? Well, there'd been that minor incident at that swimming pool that got hushed up under the Official Secrets Act or some such nonsense, but nothing major. Nothing dangerous. But from what the DI was saying and what Greg had told her, but had kept secret from Sally, bad things had happened. Things that had not been investigated by the police.

As they drove, Sally thought about the crimes that had happened several years previously that had involved the Freak. No, she was going to have to stop calling him that, even in her own mind. Things that had involved Sherlock. If he called her Sally then she would call him Sherlock. Yes, that would suit.

Sitting back, she recalled the serial suicides case and that embarrassing press conference. Then John Watson had arrived on the scene with his cane and his limp, looking bewildered but quietly resolute. Had she really warned him off of Sherlock even then? She couldn't recall her exact words, but she remembered lashing out at the F … Sherlock by saying some horrible things about him to his new flatmate. She accepted now that her behaviour then had been deplorable. But the next time she saw John Watson, during the drugs bust at Baker Street, both the cane and the limp had gone. And his eyes had seemed brighter, more alive than when she'd first met him. Could that have been Sherlock's influence? Could one man have affected another so fundamentally in such a short time?

Then the cabby was shot after kidnapping Sherlock and trying to poison him. They never did solve that case. Greg's notes about Sherlock's ramblings in the back of the ambulance had never made it into the official case file. It was a good shot though. The SC&amp;O19 lads had been impressed. No evidence of the shooter's identity was found, and Sherlock said he was too shocked to make a coherent deduction. She remembered walking past Sherlock and John Watson as they left the scene, laughing and talking about Chinese. Sherlock seemed happy, not shocked, and Dr Watson was marching, unaided, like the soldier he was. Shit! Dr Watson was a soldier. No, he couldn't have been the shooter. He was a Doctor in the RAMC. They're non-combatants, not snipers.

Shaking her head to clear the disquieting possibility from her mind, Sally's thoughts turned to the serial abductions with civilians being strapped into bomb jackets and made to call in their own ransom demands, all so that Sherlock could show how clever he was by solving the problems and saving the day. Except he hadn't saved everyone had he. The elderly, blind lady had been blown up along with the block of flats she lived in. People had died, but Sherlock still played the bomber's game. Thinking about it now, he really had no choice. By solving the puzzles Sherlock had saved several of the victims from a grisly death. She'd honestly thought, when he'd rescued the Ambassador's children and she was building the case against him, that he'd set up the bombings to feed his own ego. But now, with hindsight, she realised her assumption may have been wrong. Sherlock had spent that case claiming there were pips used as a countdown. There'd never been a final pip had there. They'd been called to do a forensics sweep of that swimming pool, much to Philip's annoyance, and had found nothing but sweet wrappers and boot marks. And Dr Watson's finger prints all over one of the changing room cubicles.

Thinking back, she recalled Greg receiving a phone call just before they were setting off to Baker Street to question the Doctor. They'd immediately been stood down and told that the prints had been accounted for. No further action required. She remembered that Dr Watson had been very quiet at the next few crime scenes, never straying far from Sherlock's side. As she mulled over the chain of events she was suddenly struck by a conclusion that left her feeling unsettled. It couldn't be possible, could it? The final pip that never came; the bombings that abruptly stopped; the serial bomber that just disappeared; the puzzles that Sherlock had to solve in a game that suddenly ended. And the first one had been in Baker Street itself: a case Sherlock said he had tried to solve as a child and trainers from that case appearing in the flat beneath his, led there by a phone identical to that of the final victim in the serial suicides case. She'd assumed that Sherlock had to have set it all up as no-one else had access to all that information. But Moriarty could have if the Consulting Criminal was involved in all those crimes. She drew a little gasp as she accepted the possibility that she'd looked at everything from the wrong angle. That maybe, just maybe, her need to be right about Sherlock had blinded her to other ways of reading the evidence.

This new idea led to her re-evaluating her memories of the serial bomber case. Could there have been a final pip that had not been reported? John Watson's prints were fresh and all over that changing cubicle but no-where else at the pool. Could he have been kidnapped? If so, was he strapped into a bomb vest like the other victims while Sherlock was taunted with clues to his location? After all, the swimming pool was connected to the trainers. If Moriarty was the bomber, then it was possible that John Watson was a pawn in his games? He certainly was later as proven when the tape was released of the conversation between Moriarty and Sherlock on the roof at Bart's before Sherlock jumped. The conversation where the landlady, Greg and John Watson were threatened by snipers unless Sherlock sacrificed himself.

Sally felt a shiver run down her spine as she pondered the possibility. She knew beyond all doubt that Moriarty had manipulated Sherlock into forfeiting his life. She knew she herself had been manipulated into believing that Sherlock was responsible for arranging the kidnapping of the Ambassador's children. A belief she had clung to even when it had been proven to everyone else's satisfaction that he had no involvement. At the time she had focused her anger at the, by then dead, self-styled Consulting Detective rather than at the man who had manipulated her with bread crumbs she was eager to follow to an incorrect and devastating conclusion. It was easier to lash out at the freak she knew than at the face on a TV screen who a court of law had found innocent of all charges despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

As her mind churned she was again confronted with the uncomfortable realisation that her own prejudices, and, let's face it, hatred for Sherlock Holmes, had made her an easy target to be manipulated by a criminal mastermind. She wondered if she would have come to a different conclusion about the kidnapping case if she had been more clear-headed. At the time she thought she was being clever, showing Greg Lestrade the type of lunatic he'd put his faith in, eager to highlight just how wrong he'd been. The resulting review of every case Sherlock had been involved in had been incredibly expensive and time consuming, not only for the Met, but also for the CPS who'd received numerous claims of miscarriages of justice. It was the final conclusion of the investigation, some eight months later, that not one shred of evidence could be found of any significant wrong-doing by Sherlock Holmes. Where there had been issues with evidence and chain of custody, there had been sufficient secure evidence to still ensure the conviction and therefore prevent a re-trial. At least her troubled conscience was salved that no criminals had been released as a result of her short-sightedness.

DI Panesar parked in the car park off Dorset Square at quarter to six, and they began the short walk to Baker Street. Sally began to feel uncomfortable, remembering the last time she had been to 221B was the night Sherlock Holmes became a fugitive and Dr Watson head-butted the Chief Superintendent (a pig of a man who had, very publicly, taken full and complete credit for Sally's deductions about Sherlock. He had swiftly been put on gardening leave until his enforced retirement on health grounds once Sherlock was cleared on all counts)

Sally recalled John Watson's quiet satisfaction as they pushed him against the police car ready to be hand-cuffed and his rights read to him, only for Sherlock to grab a gun and threaten all who approached. Recalling the almost laughable situation now with startling clarity she realised that Dr Watson had only looked seriously concerned when Sherlock was pointing the gun at the assembled police, both armed and unarmed. As soon as Sherlock placed the gun against his temple and threatened to shoot him, she suddenly recalled the Doctor had visibly relaxed, almost smiling as his flat-mate used him as a hostage. The memory caused Sally to bark out a laugh, drawing a bemused glance from the DI striding beside her.

"Sorry Ma'am. I've just realised what an extraordinary man Dr Watson really is."

"Well alright." The DI seemed appeased if confused. "Are we going to be OK Sergeant?"

"Yes Ma'am. I think we're going to be fine." And for once, Sally truly looked forward to a meeting with Sherlock Holmes.

-0-0-0-

The flat was different from the last time she'd been there. The smell of chemicals and the slight miasma of decomposition no longer permeated the atmosphere.

Sherlock leapt from his chair as they approached the head of the stairs.

"Detective Inspector, it's good to see you. Take a seat in the armchair. Would you like a cup of tea? John's just making a pot now." Sherlock seemed relaxed and welcoming, which surprised Sally. But then she'd never actually been invited into his home, either arriving behind Lestrade to beg for his attendance at a crime scene or executing a spurious drugs bust. Sherlock turned his gaze upon her and she found herself instinctively standing straighter and lifting her chin in defiance, ready for a fight. She suddenly caught her DI's tense expression out of the corner of her eye, and immediately relaxed her posture. She noticed that Sherlock responded to the change and also relaxed. "Sergeant, would you care for tea or would you prefer coffee?"

"Tea would be lovely. Thank you."

Sherlock seemed surprised by her response, but accepted it without comment, moving a chair from the dining table and placing it next to the DI's armchair before gesturing for her to join them around the fireplace.

Sally took a moment to glance around, noticing small changes since she'd last been there. That it had been well over three years since her last visit startled her. Generally the flat seemed tidier and less cluttered. There was still a human skull on the mantelpiece, now joined by a wedding photo in an obviously expensive, but elegant gold frame (she recognised John and Sherlock in Morning suits standing either side of a blonde woman in a long, ivory dress, presumably John's wife). The bull's skull on the wall had been replaced by a cheerful landscape. The additional arm chair, now occupied by the DI, joined the original two around the fireplace, a knitting caddy, a sewing box, and a small pile of magazines and books placed beside the chair within easy reach of anyone who sat there.

All in all the flat seemed homelier and much more welcoming than her previous visit. It occurred to her that John Watson still lived here. She was so used to seeing his address as 221B Baker Street that it hadn't struck her as odd whilst she took his statement when this was the home address he gave. But surely he was married? Didn't he live with his wife?

Her ruminations on the state of John Watson's marriage were shelved by the arrival of the man himself bearing a tray containing tea cups and a large tea pot. This was placed on the side table next to his own armchair.

"Detective Inspector, milk, sugar?"

"Black please, one sugar. And please, call me Noor, although I would prefer you use my rank at crime scenes. You know how it is if the junior officers sense weakness."

"I know exactly what you mean Noor. If you wish, call me Doctor when we're on a case, but most of the time I'm John." Handing the cup and saucer to the DI, John turned to Sally. "Sergeant, how do you take yours?" The tightness around his eyes and closed expression revealed that he was not happy she was there, despite his politeness.

Sally stiffened slightly, taken aback at the formality when they'd been acquainted for so many years. But then, it was perhaps what she deserved after the grief she had caused in this man's life.

"White, no sugar please. And I'd appreciate it if you called me Sally. I know we've never been friends but, I'd like to apologise for past behaviour and try to turn over a new leaf, if you're willing that is."

John pondered this whilst he prepared Sally's tea. Handing the cup to the DS he had obviously come to a decision as some of the tightness left his face. "Then I suppose you may call me John. I think we're adult enough to let bygones be bygones."

John handed a cup to Sherlock, and finally prepared his own. Sally noticed an additional cup and saucer remained on the tray but didn't comment.

Sherlock turned to the DI. "Now we're settled, it only remains for me to insist you call me Sherlock, Noor."

He turned his gaze towards the DS, giving her one of his appraising looks. Sally felt herself tense, expecting some comment, but relaxed and smiled before sipping her tea when Sherlock said "And you must call me Sherlock too Sally." It was as much a peace offering as a warning. It confirmed her decision to stop referring to him as The Freak. "I will Sherlock. And again, I'm sorry."

Holding his saucer in his left hand, Sherlock waved his right in a gesture of dismissal. "It's past. We won't think of it again."

They sat in silence for a minute, just sipping their tea, before Sherlock set his cup and saucer aside. "So, you have news for us Noor."

"Yes, I do. Good news I hope. Well mostly. We identified the recipient of the drugs and his bodyguard thanks to your information and some strained eyes from the team we sent to Heathrow. We picked them up that evening and held them overnight awaiting the results of forensics. Unfortunately the young man in question has a powerful father with friends in high places. Given that we had no direct evidence that he had met the girl we had to allow his father to take him back to Mexico. He has, however, been banned from returning to the UK under any circumstances. We did find evidence that his US bodyguard was directly involved in the girl's murder and he has now been charged. Apart from the CCTV from Heathrow of him collecting her at the airport, our sharp-eyed custody Sergeant spotted blood on his watch strap. This proved to match the victim …"

"Ximena." John's voice wavered slightly when he said her name. "Please, don't de-humanise her now. Call her Ximena. It's all she has left."

Noor frowned before smiling at the Doctor, unaware of just how badly the incident had affected him. "My apologies, you are quite right. The blood on the suspect matched Ximena. He also had a cut on his right palm. As you suspected, despite being a former US marine, he didn't know how to hold a straight razor and had cut himself. We've managed to match the wound to the blade with a high degree of certainty, but the blood trace at the scene, in the car, and on his watch have pretty much closed the case. He was keeping his mouth shut until the solicitor supplied by his employer had a little chat with him, then suddenly he was confessing to not only killing the girl, but orchestrating the drug supply for his employer, which, _of course_, the young man had no knowledge of. I can only think that he felt he would have an easier time in a British prison than in Mexico, although he could only be charged with drug trafficking if they applied for extradition. I also suspect that daddy sweetened the deal if he took the fall for the son. If the son was charged, he would have difficulty getting into America or any of the other countries he is no doubt looking at to continue his 'education'."

Both John and Sherlock nodded as they digested this information, Sherlock with his fingers steepled on his chin and John with his hands resting on the arms of his chair. Sally noted that John's left hand was, again, clenching and unclenching spasmodically, and that Sherlock's eyes were drawn to the movement with concerned eyes. She wondered how she had ever believed that this man was unfeeling.

John broke the silence. "And her family? Did you find Ximena's family?"

Noor was pleased she was at least able to give some good news. "Yes, the Mexican Embassy have tracked down her family and are organising repatriation once her body is released. From what we understand, her family are from a remote farming village; very poor, almost subsistence farmers. Apparently, they believed their daughter had won a scholarship to train as a nurse in Mexico City. It looks like city life turned her head and she ran into financial difficulties, had to give up her education and was too tied in to escape back to her family. Whether she'd have wanted to give up the city to go back to the country is anyone's guess, but the end result was her transporting drugs."

As silence once again descended on the little company, the front door could be heard to open and close, and footsteps echoed up the stairs. The blonde woman from the photo appeared in the doorway, depositing her briefcase by the door, hanging her coat and kicking off her shoes. She obviously sensed the strained atmosphere because she exchanged a worried look with Sherlock as she walked over to John's chair. John turned his head towards her as she placed a gentle kiss on his lips, and, Sally noted, an even gentler squeeze to his agitated left hand.

"Evening Love." She ruffled his hair before she then moved over to Sherlock, who also turned into her as they placed a kiss on each other's cheeks. She also rested an affectionate hand on his right shoulder.

"Good evening Mary. Good day?"

"Not bad once I got past the students. Tea anyone? Shall I refresh the pot?" Sherlock responded in the affirmative.

John had not spoken at all and, apart from kissing his wife, had been lost in silent contemplation. His expression remained strained.

Sally was not sure how to take this scene of domesticity. This woman was obviously John's wife, but it was quite clear she shared the flat with her husband and Sherlock. In fact, she obviously had a close relationship with the man. Sally realised she'd never actually seen Sherlock touch anyone beyond the occasional handshake. Even Greg barely touched him beyond the rare, uncomfortable hug, usually precipitated by too much alcohol. In fact, John was the only person she'd ever seen Sherlock touch without inhibition, and now he had sought out the cheek of this woman with a kiss.

At that moment Mary returned with a refilled tea pot, a slightly forced but cheerful smile on her face despite the continued tension in the room.

"Hello. As these idiots won't do the introductions, I'll do it myself while the tea steeps. I'm John's wife, Mary. I take it you're with the police."

Noor stood up to shake the offered hand. "I'm DI Noor Panesar. It's a pleasure to meet you. And, as I'm sure you already know, this is my DS, Sally Donovan."

Sally stood up and offer her hand, replying somewhat awkwardly "No. We've never actually met."

Mary focused her eyes slightly and tightened her lips as she took the offered hand. "Sergeant Donovan? You used to work for Greg Lestrade I believe." The unspoken question was '_are you THAT Sally Donovan?_'

Sally straightened her spine and tried not to look too uncomfortable. "Yes, I did. And now I'm DI Panesar's bagman."

The moment hung between them, cloying and awkward until Noor broke the silence. "So Mary, you're a teacher?"

"Yes. Well actually I'm a Professor at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine, specialising in tropical diseases"

"Sounds interesting."

"It is. But I'm glad to be away from the excitement. I leave that to these two. When I first qualified I spent 5 years travelling the world with Médecins Sans Frontières until illness forced me to rethink my career choices. By then I'd had enough of suffering and inhumanity. I settled in Australia for a few years where I completed my PH.D, then began lecturing, before family issues drew me back to London."

"So, you don't get involved in cases."

Mary laughed. "God, no. I might give Sherlock the benefit of my expert opinion if he asks, and sometimes I need to help patch the boys up if they've got themselves knocked about, but basically I'm home fires and moral support, which suits us all quite nicely."

Noor gave a wry smile. "I don't blame you for staying clear. Murder can be an ugly business."

"Hmmm. So I take it you're working on the case of that poor girl that came into John's A&amp;E."

Sally glanced at her DI who nodded her approval for her Sergeant to answer. "Yes, yes, we are. In fact, we were just here to bring an update. It may be that John and Sherlock won't have to give evidence. The culprit has given a full confession and, we are led to believe, will plead guilty to all charges."

Mary had taken her tea cup and perched herself on the edge of the armchair next to John's left shoulder. At Sally's words, she'd begun to gently rub John's back, as the man himself still kept his eyes downturned, lost in his own thoughts.

"Good." Focusing on her husband and lowering her face towards him, she coaxed "That's good news isn't it John? And you found her family?"

Noor answered. "Yes, the Embassy is being very cooperative and Ximena's family are being informed."

"That's good to know. Closure is always so important isn't it?"

Sally realised that Mary's comment was as much about the family of the victim as it was about the men seated in quiet contemplation.

John suddenly shook himself, lifting his head and noticing the replenished teapot for the first time. "Hmm, another cup I think. Sherlock, another?" And for the first time since they'd arrived, John Watson smiled. It was a small smile, not one of the huge grins that could light up his face that Sally had witnessed on occasion at crime scenes when he thought no-one was looking, but still, it was a smile.

Sherlock looked relieved as he took in his flat-mate's expression. In response his own mouth quirked at little at the side and his eyes brightened. "Please John. Thank you for taking care of our guests Mary. An angel, as always."

Mary smiled with genuine affection at the man Sally had so frequently called a psychopath, and who had labelled himself a high-functioning sociopath to all who would listen. Now, witnessing the expressions of genuine affection and acceptance between the three inhabitants of this strange flat only confirmed to her what Greg, and now Noor, had been trying to tell her. That, for those Sherlock called family, he cared very deeply indeed.

* * *

**SC&amp;O19 is the Metropolitan Police firearms unit**


	14. New beginnings

**Sally Donovan's journey of redemption draws to a close whilst several lives take new directions.**

* * *

The drive back to the Yard was as quiet as the journey out, except this time the mood was lighter. Some of the tension that had existed between the DI and her new bagman had seemed to lift. Only time would tell, but Sally had the first inklings that maybe learning from Noor Panesar would be a very good thing. She would be a fool not to embrace the opportunity before her.

Sally came into work the next morning feeling more energised than she had done in a long time. The previous evening had been spent in soul-searching. She'd contemplated new information and the changes this wrought in her late into the night. Her conclusions had forced a fundamental shift in how she saw herself and how she chose to proceed with her career. That she still wanted to make DI was a given, but the way she pictured herself in the role needed revision. Maybe the hard-nosed ball breaker should not be her default position. Noor had already shown her another way, and Sherlock's obvious respect for the DI only confirmed that she needed to change her attitude. It would take some work with new skills to learn, but she now believed that Noor was the Inspector to mentor her towards her goals.

Despite the late night, she'd slept well. Rising early, feeling surprisingly refreshed, she'd stopped at a favourite patisserie on the way to the Yard. She bought coffees for herself and the DI, with a small selection of pastries and croissants to share with the DI and her immediate team.

She'd also bought a coffee, and bacon sandwich with brown sauce for her old boss, DCI Greg Lestrade. There was something she desperately needed to do but the thought of taking that step was making her nervous. In the end she took a deep breath, mentally berated herself for her dithering and, grabbing the peace offering, marched up to the DCI's door.

A quick rap on the frame and she poked her head into his office. "Sir. Can I have a word?"

Greg looked up at the familiar voice. Spotting the bag and guessing that it was for him he smiled brightly. "Course, come in Sally. Don't stand on ceremony. Is that for me? Lovely. I missed breakfast this morning and if that's what I think it is you're a star."

Sally handed over the paper bag containing the bacon sarnie. Greg opened the bag, sticking his nose in and inhaling the tempting scent with delight. "Buttering up you old boss Sally? Are you after something?" He vaguely gestured at the guest chair in front of his desk, indicating that she sit, before diving into the bag and extracting half of the thick sandwich. He hummed in delight as he opened his jaw wide to get around the hard crust and sink his teeth into the soft bread oozing bacon fat, butter and sauce.

He chewed and swallowed the first mouthful with obvious relish, wiping greasy dribbles from his chin with a serviette before popping the sandwich down onto the bag and grabbing his coffee.

"Now then Sally, how can I help? I hope it's nothing that's going to give me indigestion."

"No Sir. At least, I don't think so." The DCI looked at her expectantly, taking a mouthful of coffee as the Sergeant before him composed herself.

He'd known Sally for almost a decade. He was well aware she was quick to anger and slow to forgive. But, in almost every other respect she was a fine officer. He knew putting her with Noor was a risk, but he couldn't, in good conscience, recommend her for DI until she got her head straight. He'd hoped Noor would have more luck than he had with the headstrong Sergeant, but early indications were that the relationship between DI and DS was volatile. Bets were already being taken on how long it would last. Taking another swig of the strong coffee he waited to see how Sally was going to proceed.

"I wanted to apologise."

To say Greg was shocked was an understatement. In all the time he'd worked with Sally he'd rarely heard her apologise for anything voluntarily. Usually it was grudgingly, under orders, and rarely genuine. To hear her apologise now for he knew not what, and apparently genuinely too, was strangely disturbing. Even more so than the news he'd heard the previous evening from Molly.

"OK. And what would this apology be for?"

"Sherlock."

Greg braced himself.

"I thought, all those years, that he was an unfeeling psychopath. He embodied everything I hated. Arrogant, condescending, entitled, and then to threaten all of that with drugs. You remember in the early days when he'd swank onto our crime scene off his head on cocaine and still see more than we ever could. I'd worked so hard and fought for everything to get where I was, and he could just waltz in and do my job better than me."

Anticipating the usual rant, Greg tried to forestall the direction he thought Sally was going. "He's never been able to do your job better than you Sally. Point taken on spotting clues and pulling the whole crime together. He's always been good at the clever bits, but the other stuff is something he could never do. When you don't let him get under your skin, no-one works the team better than you. You keep on top of the lads, keep all the paperwork ship shape, ensure everything is done to procedure, and make sure that all the follow-up and closure is dealt with properly. But you already know this. I've told you in every evaluation we've had. You'll make a great DI, and hopefully you'll get there one day, but …"

"Yeah, I know. I need to rein in my temper and not let my own prejudices blinker me to other avenues of enquiry. It has recently been explained to me extremely clearly. Thanks for putting me with DI Panesar by the way. It's what I needed." Greg looked startled, nearly choking on his latest mouthful of sandwich. "I thought you were punishing me at first, but I think you were right. I know I've only been with her a week and I've got a long way to go. I've got a tonne of stuff to get my head 'round and a lot to learn from her, and you, but I think I'm ready now. She read me the riot act when I first joined her. She'd really seemed to have done her homework on me and I hated her for it. But she was right. I needed to get my head out of my arse. And this case with John and Sherlock has really opened my eyes."

Now Greg was truly shocked. "Umm, Sherlock?"

"Yeah. Why I owe you a huge apology. I've already apologised to him and John. I was wrong about him. OK, maybe not at first. But since he's been clean and he's been living with John he's different. I just couldn't see it. I still saw the junkie I hated instead of what he's become. The DI calls it my virtual Sherlock. And yeah, I delighted in goading him knowing he'd retaliate. But it's my behaviour to John that really makes me so bloody furious with myself. Have you ever noticed how his left hand kind of spasms when he's upset?"

"Yeah. It's left over from when he was invalided out of the Army. Nerve damage from the bullet wound that ended both his military and surgical careers. Intermittent tremor of the left hand is not good for a man with a scalpel, especially in a war zone."

"Oh God! I never knew! Shit, I feel really horrible now. I never really noticed how many times when I was laying in to Sherlock, or bitching at John for his friendship with him, that his left hand started flexing. I always thought he was angry and trying to avoid punching me. Once I noticed I delighted in getting that little rise from him knowing that he isn't the type of man to hit a woman. I never knew that I was actually hurting him."

"Yeah, you were." Greg felt anger at himself that he'd never noticed how much his friend was being tormented by his Sergeant. He knew Sherlock could give as good as he got, but John was a different matter. For all his strength and inner steel, in some respects he was quite fragile. Now he regretted all the times he'd let Donovan and Anderson go too far with their venom. "He kept it hidden from me. He asked me to have a word sometimes, but only with regard to Sherlock, never himself. If I'd known I'd have shut you down sooner."

"Well, I know now and I'm angry with myself for it. I hurt a good man. No, two good men, for no reason. Because I know now that you were right. That you understood the truth of Sherlock when I couldn't. And I wanted to hurt you for it, god help me. Before he jumped, when I was pulling together the case against him, I was so smug. I know the evidence was all there, all laid out nice and neat leading me by the nose. I was too convinced of my own cleverness: that I was the only one who'd seen the truth. I wanted to show you I could pull everything together too. That your pet psychopath was playing you, when really it was me being played. I know now, he isn't a psychopath, or even a sociopath. Noor saw it straight away when they both came in to give their witness statements in the Mendez case. She asked me afterwards why I hadn't noticed how the case had effected John, and how caring and protective Sherlock was of him. She saw right away what I'd never let myself see. It's not that Sherlock is unfeeling, but that he feels too deeply. He protects himself with the sociopath act, by being obnoxious to keep people away so he can maintain focus. But if anything happened to those he truly cares about I think it might destroy him."

Greg set down his now nearly empty cup of coffee and looked in satisfaction at his old colleague. "And now you know why he jumped."

"Yeah. It must have torn him apart being away from those he … loved. But I still don't get why he made John watch. That seemed unnecessarily cruel, even for him."

"Not cruel, necessary. John had to believe. It was the only way Sherlock could see to keep him alive. He was wrong, but in his mind it was the only way he could see it working. John had to believe that Sherlock was dead and demonstrate his grief every day to anyone who was watching, and Sherlock had to know that John was doing that. Sherlock had to know that John was safe to be able to do what he needed to, and John had to think Sherlock was dead to keep them both alive. As it was, Sherlock underestimated John's abilities, as so many do. John worked it out and then kept the secret until Sherlock was ready to return."

"But why not let John know at the time? Surely it was all over when Moriarty died?"

"No. There was a whole international crime syndicate set up to carry on Moriarty's legacy. Sherlock knew he had to take that down to ensure our survival. Don't forget, I was a target too. And Mrs Hudson, their landlady. I only know bits and pieces of what Sherlock had to do. It was not pretty, and you really don't want to know. Suffice to say it was sanctioned at the highest levels. I do know he mistakenly betrayed himself at the final moment putting John back in the crosshairs."

"Was that the kidnapping that you got roped into investigating by the spooks just before Sherlock returned?"

"Yeah. I think I wasn't so much investigating as in protective custody. Turns out John was drugged and kidnapped from UCLH by Moriarty's second in command. He found himself back at that swimming pool where we found his prints that time, and wrapped in semtex again. Knowing how much it shook him the first time I'm surprised he was as calm as he was when we found them."

"I knew it. I knew John was the final pip." Sally nearly leapt from her chair in exultation, but settled for rubbing her hands together and smiling broadly.

Greg looked up in shock. "How the hell did you work that out? Nobody in the Yard knew the details except me, and even I didn't know that much. Sherlock thought it was best I had some idea of what happened so John had someone to lean on in case he needed to talk, Sherlock not being the best with emotional support."

"I'd never have thought Sherlock would've been concerned about John's wellbeing, but I understand now. I worked it out earlier, about John and the pool. DI Panesar mentioned there were some things that had gone on regarding Sherlock and Moriarty that were off the books. I wondered why you'd never told me, but I understand now why you couldn't. I'm sorry my own stupidity meant I couldn't support you as I should have. Instead I used the half-truths and misinformation to convince myself Sherlock was some sort of master criminal when in fact he was trying to bring one down." She couldn't quite bring herself to say the words 'my own stupidity meant you couldn't trust me.'

"Yeah well, twenty-twenty hindsight is a wonderful thing. But, back to you. Can I gather from this that things with Noor are working out? Should I expect an improved working relationship with out Consultants?"

Sally grinned. "Yeah. I should say so. Thank you Sir. Now finish that sandwich before it congeals."

"Very well Sergeant." As Sally turned to leave, the DCI called her back. "Oh Sally, the wife asked me to hand out the invitations to our anniversary party. Here's yours, and can I ask you to discretely pass these round to the others. It's not an open house, but there are several old lags I want to invite without putting noses out of joint. I'll buy a round down the pub next time we're all out for those who don't come. Names are on the envelopes. I'll sort out the other DI's, but can you give this one to Noor. I know she's new, but I think she's done us both a good turn in the short time she's been here, don't you."

Sally grinned, taking the proffered stack of envelopes, and heading out the door. "I quite agree, Sir."

-0-0-0-

It was the Friday a week prior to Greg and Molly's anniversary party. Mary couldn't believe that the year had flown by so quickly. Of course, Sherlock hadn't been at the wedding. It would be another three months before his return, and the events that had nearly cost her John. Of course John and Mary had known that Sherlock was alive and that Molly had helped with his disappearance. Unfortunately it was too risky to let her know that they knew, so all they could do was offer what love and support they could despite knowing the meaning behind the sad looks she gave John when she thought he couldn't see.

She'd almost turned down Greg's proposal because of her guilt over the whole situation, believing he would hate her if he ever knew how she'd consistently failed to confide in him about her involvement. It had taken Mary sitting her down to explain that everyone has secrets, even from those they love the most, to persuade her Greg would understand.

-0-0-0-

Greg had proposed one evening at Molly's flat. The first they knew was when John got a frantic phone call from a drunk and distraught Greg. John had immediately headed to the pub Greg had taken refuge in, just down the street from Molly's, while Mary had gone to offer support to the woman who had so quickly become a close friend.

"I couldn't Mary. He asked and I just couldn't. I can't tell him. It's such a huge secret, but it's not mine to tell. And I don't know what will happen when he finds out. It feels like I've betrayed him, twice, but I just can't marry him with this hanging over us. And I really love him, but now it's all … all over."

Mary grabbed the box of tissues she'd brought out of her handbag and handed one to the weeping pathologist.

"It's not a bad secret is it Molly? You didn't do anything wrong?"

"No, no. I helped someone. But it hurt some people they were close to. It hurt Greg."

"Is it something that will hopefully make things better in the end?"

"I, I hope so, if everything goes alright. But I don't know, I just don't know. Oh Mary, this has hurt so many people." Molly's distress had been heart-breaking, but Mary could only lead her in the right direction, hopefully without betraying their own secret and endangering everyone.

"Molly, you're not a bad person. Someone asked you for help when they were in a bad situation and couldn't see a way out?" Mary knew she was prompting, but Molly was too distraught to do anything but nod.

"And it wasn't you who caused this bad situation, nor the person you helped was it?"

"No. No." A tear rolled gown Molly's cheek. She dabbed it away with her now sodden tissue.

"So it wasn't you that caused Greg to be hurt, or anyone else. It was the person who created the situation in the first place. They're the person who should be held responsible, not you. You just tried to make things better. And I bet you were the one person who could do what needed to be done."

Molly's lips quivered, but she'd drawn herself up a little and the fight was coming back to her eyes. "Yes. I was. I did what needed to be done."

"Well then, how can Greg be angry at you? If it all works out, Greg will be happy and be glad you helped. If it doesn't then everyone will be upset anyway and your part will be nothing compared to the person who caused it all. Don't you think?"

"You're right Mary. I know you're right. But it's such a big lie. I'm so frightened I'll give it away and I'll lose Greg forever. I couldn't bear that. This thing is just hanging over us and I'm so terrified it'll take Greg away from me."

"Molly, Greg loves you. And you love him don't you?" Her answer was a damp nod and a sniffle. "Then call him tomorrow morning, meet him for coffee and tell him yes. Explain you got scared, and you're sorry you hurt him. Can you do that?"

"Yeah. Thank you Mary."

"Now come here for a hug, then I'll make us a camomile tea while you wash your face, and we can plan out how you're going to get engaged."

-0-0-0-

In the pub, Greg was in a bad way. He'd skipped the beer and gone straight for the whiskey. When John arrived, Greg was slumped on a stool, his chin resting on the bar, staring fixedly at a small jeweller's box in front of him.

As John approached, his arrival was acknowledged by the barman. He was obviously used to ministering to people drowning their sorrows, so was quick to meet John's order of a pint of 6X, relieved that he was no longer the target of this stranger's miserable ramblings.

John hitched himself onto the adjacent stool and rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You OK mate?"

Greg just stared miserably ahead of him before reaching for his whiskey tumbler. He ran his fingers along its base causing the glass to spin in lazy circles on the bar.

"She said she couldn't. I asked her and she said she couldn't. I thought we were good. I thought that this time I'd got it right." Greg ran the index finger of his right hand across the box in a gentle caress. "Why didn't she say yes? I mean I'm a nice guy aren't I? I know I'm older than her and I've been married before, but I thought she was OK with that. I mean, she knows my job. Hell, she's part of my job. It must be me. I'm too old for her. God, why do I always humiliate myself?"

John gently squeezed Greg's shoulder in comfort and support. "You know she loves you, mate."

"I thought she did. I thought we were good together."

"You are. Did she give a reason, you know, why she couldn't say yes?"

"Just that she couldn't."

John guessed that this was something to do with Sherlock. He knew about Molly's involvement but he'd never discussed it with her for fear of putting her in danger. Greg had no idea Sherlock was alive or that Molly had helped ensure that. He knew she felt guilty at her involvement and the pain she thought she'd caused him. They met almost weekly at the UCLH café for coffee and a chat, so he was well aware how strong Molly's feelings were for Greg. He resolved to find a way to reconcile her to the part she'd played, hopefully without giving the secret away.

Just then his phoned chimed with a text. It was Mary. _'Coffee tomorrow. All sorted. Get Greg on track.'_

Turning back to his friend, John waved at the barman to ask for a coffee. The man looked relieved as he slid the mug of steaming liquid in front of Greg. John gestured to the half empty tumbler. With a nod of understanding, the barman discretely removed the tumbler and wiped the bar dry removing all trace of its existence.

"Here you go Greg. Get this down you. You'll feel better." He pushed the coffee towards Greg's hands. Taking the jewellery box he unzipped Greg's jacket pocket, slipping the ring safely inside before zipping the pocket securely closed. "Mary's with Molly now. She says she just got a case of the jitters and that she'll call you tomorrow morning to arrange a coffee."

Greg grunted in acknowledgement, his coffee still untouched.

"Come on mate. She loves you. You know that, and Mary's just texted to confirm it. I've put the ring safely in your jacket and I know, if you ask her tomorrow she'll say yes."

"Will she?"

"Yeah, you know she will. You two are great together. Come on, get that coffee down you. Make you feel better. Doctor's orders."

Greg reached for the coffee and, with the long practice of a hardened coffee drinker, downed the steaming cup in one go.

"I'm not waiting. If she's going to say yes I want to hear it now. I'm not sleeping on this. I need an answer now."

Greg stood, somewhat gracelessly, the alcohol taking its toll on his balance.

"You sure mate? You want to do this now?"

"I'm not waiting. I've wasted too much of my life. I need to know now. If she's taking me on she needs to know the worst of me, so no, I'm not waiting. It's now or never." And he began a determined meander towards the exit.

John sent a quick text to Mary._ 'Incoming. 5 minutes. Get Molly ready.'_

He caught up with Greg outside the pub. The DI was propped up against the wall, panting slightly as he adjusted to the fresh air's effect on his intoxicated system.

"You sure about this mate?"

"No, but I can't wait any longer. If it's over I need to know now."

"OK, OK. Let's go."

Fifteen minutes later a very drunk but happy Gregory Lestrade was stripped to his underwear and tucked into bed, whilst an ecstatic but sniffly Molly Hooper showed John and Mary out. Forgiveness had been begged, proposals made, a ring offered and acceptance given followed by laughter, hugs and kisses all round. Finally, mission accomplished, Greg had succumbed to the whiskey. John had manhandled him to Molly's bed and stripped him of his clothes whilst Mary secured water, paracetamol, and a bucket for emergencies.

With assurances from Molly that she was fine and would call Mary in the morning, John and Mary headed back to Baker Street, tired but happy.

From then on things progressed quickly.

Mycroft released the recordings of the conversation on the roof of Bart's a scant few weeks after the engagement. At John's behest, Greg had persuaded Molly to keep the news of their engagement quiet. Neither had fully understood at the time, but accepted that John had his reasons. Once the recordings were made public they'd thanked John for his forethought. They hadn't known that Greg was a target. Sherlock had no reason to tell Molly at the time, and Greg had not been informed. The news had come as a shock to them both. Neither had realised quite how important they were to the Detective.

The intimate wedding took place two months later in front of a few close friends, Greg's brother as his best man and Molly's maternal aunt, the only close family either had remaining. Molly had chosen to keep her maiden name for professional reasons, and also for their continued safety. There was no announcement of Banns or nuptials and attendees were asked to maintain the secret until further notice. It was a small subterfuge that temporarily kept the changed relationship from becoming a matter of public record. Combined with Mycroft's increased security it should throw off any cursory enquiries made about the couple.

John's slip of the tongue that tipped Greg off to Sherlock's survival had happened only a few weeks before the event, and John was certain Greg had kept the knowledge to himself. Mycroft had taken Greg and Molly aside to warn them that they may still be in danger and that he was taking responsibility for their security. To that end, he had supplied the catering and entertainment for the wedding, and vetted the honeymoon destination. Any annoyance at their curtailed freedoms was tempered by the knowledge of just how dangerously devious anything involving Moriarty could be.

A mere three months after the wedding, John was getting reacquainted with semtex jackets and the Consulting Detective was emerging back into their lives.

-0-0-0-

Molly and Mary were having a girl's day in the West End. Both wanted new outfits for the anniversary party the following weekend, so they'd decided to hit the shops for shoes, frocks, handbags and make-overs. As a treat, Mary had booked them into Selfridges on Oxford Street for a full day of primping, styling and shopping. Backs were massaged; hair was styled; facials, manicures and pedicures enjoyed; makeup applied, and finally a personal shopper helped them sample the delights of lingerie, shoes and elegant dresses.

Mid-way through the day they had stopped for lunch at Aubaine where they could catch their breath and share more intimate news away from the ears of attentive staff.

"This is fun. Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Oh Mary, this is brilliant. I've so rarely had the time or inclination to do something like this. Spending your day with dead bodies doesn't make for a glamorous wardrobe. Goggles and masks don't work well with makeup or extravagant hairdos."

They giggled as the waitress bringing their appetizers looked shocked at the conversation she'd walked in on.

"I know what you mean. All those years out in the field in relief camps and aid stations certainly curtailed my interest in Jimmy Choos and Louboutins. We should do this more often. It's too much fun to not repeat several times a year. As a treat of course."

"Of course. Although I may have to wait a little while before we go the whole hog again." Mary looked curiously at her friend. "I wanted to tell you first so it isn't a surprise. Greg and I are expecting. It's early days, only about 8 weeks, but I wanted you to know before the party. We're not going to say anything until after I've had the scan. Unfortunately at my age it's a high risk pregnancy so we're waiting until we've had the all clear." Registering Mary's somewhat frozen expression, Molly wondered if she'd made the right decision, telling her friend now rather than waiting until it was obvious.

The touch of Molly's hand on her forearm awoke Mary from her trance, a smile illuminating her face and her eyes shining. "Oh Molly, that's wonderful. I couldn't be happier. Can I be Aunty? And so you know, if you need an honorary Granny I'm sure Mrs Hudson would love to oblige. She absolutely adores babies. In fact, between her and me you'll never be short of knitwear for the little tyke."

Molly happily squeezed the hand Mary had reached across their table in congratulations. Molly felt joy and relief she'd made the right choice in telling Mary so early. She'd never want to make her friend uncomfortable, knowing how much grief the poor woman got from her own family over her lack of children.

"Can I tell John and Sherlock? Or will you? Or perhaps Greg?"

"Let's do it together when we get back to the flat. Greg can barely keep himself contained. He's bursting to confide in someone. And I bet Sherlock already knows anyway and is just waiting to spoil the surprise or sit back with that smug know-it-all smile."

"Oh, I know. Sometimes I just want to clip his ear when he gets all self-satisfied like that. Reminds me of Mycroft actually, but don't you ever tell that to another soul, not even Greg. Sherlock'd give me the cold shoulder for weeks if he knew." Mary gave a little giggle before drawing her friend into a happy hug.

* * *

**With references to events in the previous story in the series, "Watersheds" (s/9616904/1/Watersheds)**

**Also, a nod to Amanda Abbington and her part in 'Mr Selfridge'.**

**6X is a brand of bitter.**

**Reviews and likes are always greatly appreciated.**


	15. Friends and family

**Thank you for reading, commenting or following. Whilst I am writing this story solely for my own enjoyment, it really does help to know that others are also getting something from my scribblings. Thank you**

**This chapter references the third Holmes brother, who made his first appearance in the first chapter of this series, "Birth" ( s/10486100/1/Birth).**

**WARNING: mentions child abuse, child abduction and ritual murder**

* * *

The few weeks between Noor and Sally's visit to Baker Street and the anniversary party were surprisingly relaxed. Sherlock solved a few cases, mainly online, as nothing worth his time had been reported by the Yard. Mycroft had popped round to ask him to look into one of his little problems. Sherlock had left the flat in the morning with an air of excitement, but had been lying on the sofa looking bored when John returned from his shift that evening. "It was a small matter to do with that business. Nothing in itself but it may lead to something more useful. I'll leave it to Mycroft for now."

After a little needling Sherlock finally confessed to having spent a truly tedious day in a coffee shop near Canary Wharf drinking copious quantities of frankly appalling coffee whilst pretending to be an author, editing his latest manuscript; a wordy and dry looking scientific tome that would dissuade all but the most curious bystanders from lingering. To this end, a tablet had been provided by Mycroft, loaded with said manuscript. The tablet had, of course, been specially modified, coming in a free standing case with a keyboard to allow Sherlock to access information, listen in on conversations and upload photos and video from a hidden camera, all whilst appearing to tweak the tedious document. During his stay, he had spotted several people of interest, witnessed some surreptitious hand offs, and overheard a couple of names that could prove useful. All had been recorded by the tablet and forwarded to Mycroft's unknown contact. It certainly appeared as though the coffee shop was one of the contact points for the various lower level operatives of the organisation.

"Why didn't Mycroft use one of his agents?" John asked, having dropped his briefcase and hung his coat, before heading to the kitchen in search of tea and to kiss Mary, who was busy making dinner.

"No idea. Either he thought I was in need of diversion, or his minions are too thick headed to pass as a verbose scientist."

Mary, whilst busily peeling potatoes, suddenly asked "Wasn't it a bit risky, sending you instead of some anonymous agent? It's not as if you're not well known, especially amongst criminals. I mean, anyone could have spotted you, even some passerby who recognised you from the papers."

"I'm sure Mycroft had his reasons." John recognised Sherlock's dismissal was not as light-hearted as he made out. There was an edge of worry in his tone that gave away his newly raised concern. Sherlock didn't always appreciate the notoriety that his resurrection and investigations caused, especially amongst the more sensationalist press. John would be having words with Mycroft about this. He felt sure that the notoriously conniving older brother did indeed have his reasons for exposing Sherlock, but doubted that his partner had realised the full implications of his participation. He fundamentally trusted his big brother and, to John's way of thinking, that was not always a good thing, especially if Mycroft was forced to choose between the Country and his brother's safety.

-0-0-0-

John had returned to his next round of shifts in A&amp;E with a much lighter heart than he could have expected. Of course, he still had the occasional nightmare, but generally, the news that Ximena Mendez had been given a modicum of peace was enough to settle his troubled soul.

He had approached his first day back at A&amp;E with some trepidation. Thankfully he was assigned the lunchtime to early evening shift, which were usually fairly quiet. He was launched into the maelstrom however when a wailing schoolboy was brought in by an ambulance crew, accompanied by his panicked teacher.

Apparently the eight year old had been bored in his maths class so had experimented with working his pencil up his left nostril (apparently he'd watched Harry Potter the previous evening and was fascinated by troll bogies). That the end of his pencil was adorned with an eraser shaped as a pokemon had only added to the fun.

His teacher had spotted the child and, in desperate need of a coffee herself and counting down the minutes until the end of class, she angrily marched up to the back of the class, shouting at her bewildered pupil to remove the pencil from his nose at once. The boy startled, in shock at being approached, at speed, by an irate authority figure yelling his name, and that, combined by the teacher's demand that he remove the pencil immediately resulted in the boy tugging said pencil more sharply than was appropriate. The result was a denuded pencil, a surprised teacher and a distraught child with a mounded rubber representation of Machoke firmly wedged and preventing air flow through the abused nostril.

The teacher panicked and called the Head who, in turn, had panicked (a little less obviously as decorum must be maintained) and called an ambulance. The boy's parents could not be reached so the, by now, distraught and caffeine deprived teacher was ordered to accompany the boy in the ambulance as an appropriate adult.

This resulted in John's first patient upon his return being a weeping and slightly blue boy (more as a result of his hyperventilating than any oxygen deprivation from an errant eraser). The shocked and overwrought teacher sat in the corner of the exam cubicle sniffling into a large sheet of blue paper towel with a cup of the noxious brew known as NHS coffee, provided by a sympathetic nurse. Meanwhile John and one of the nurses attempted to placate the child whilst keeping him still enough to remove the offending object. In the end they kept the boy still by bribery with sugary treats from the receptionist's secret stash whilst John carefully sliced the rubber into tiny pieces, placing each blue chunk into a kidney tray. After over an hour of 'surgery' an endoscopic image showed the nostril clear and having suffered no permanent damage other than some redness. Pictures of the child were taken on the teacher's phone to pass on to the parents, primarily to show the results of the procedure and that there were no ill effects, although the lad wanted one of him with the camera up his nose to show to his classmates. John obliged. The boy seemed unconcerned that Machoke had not survived the ordeal.

That proved to be the most unusual event of the day, but had helped to settle him back in. As usual, in his spare time he helped Sherlock with cases, or just took advantage of periods of calm to drink tea and read the paper. Compared to their usual chaos, it proved a relatively sedate couple of weeks. On the day Mary and Molly had their girl day, he and Sherlock dragged Greg to one of Sherlock's tailor contacts to get him a suit for the party. The following week, he'd accompanied Sherlock to the house in Camden to check up on Darren and the other children living there.

It was a delight to be introduced to these wonderful children, especially knowing a little of what they had endured before they arrived. Darren was doing well, his bruises diminishing and the lacerations now mostly healed. He'd seemed to have settled in well, knowing that he was safe and protected. He had made friends with one of the other inhabitants, a lad of his own age called Titus. Darren was excited that he was due to start school the following week, all the paperwork having been processed through Mycroft's intervention. As far as the school was concerned, the children lived in an orphanage with Wiggins and Gina as their Guardians.

John sat in the large living room cradling a mug of tea as Sherlock talked to Wiggins. He watched Darren and Titus playing a racing game on the TV. Darren had seemed to grow in only these few short weeks. Hearing him laugh as Titus whispered a joke in his ear caused a bubble of joy in John's chest. Knowing something of Titus' history and now seeing the boys laughing and well nourished made him so grateful that Sherlock had got involved. Titus was of West African descent. No-one was quite sure where. He'd been stolen from his family and passed around before being brought to the UK to be used in Muti. Luckily the house where the rituals were performed had been raided and the adults arrested. Titus, then only five, was passed through the welfare system from care home to foster family and back to the care home, before he'd tried his luck on the streets. At that time the boy had no real education to speak of, having been traumatized at such a young age and with little grasp of English. Sherlock had found the lad working as a lookout for drug dealers, shortly after their own meeting at Barts. The boy was starved, beaten and poorly clothed. Sherlock had offered him a choice which the lad had jumped at. That he now looked so happy, healthy and settled made John incredibly proud of his Love.

As they took their leave, John felt the urge to hug Sherlock, much to his partner's surprise. "Really John, what was that for?"

"Nothing and everything. I'm so proud of you Love. Don't you ever let anyone tell you you're not a good man. Because you are, you're the best man I know and I won't hear otherwise."

-0-0-0-

The evening of the anniversary party had turned pleasantly cool after the surprising heat of earlier in the day. Late summer weather could be changeable and Mary had deliberately chosen an off the shoulder dress with a matching jacket and a delicate shawl to cover all eventualities.

Mycroft had provided a car for the evening. Sherlock requested nothing ostentatious, so Mycroft, ever sensitive to his brother's desires, provided a vintage Rolls Royce phantom in a delicate golden shade that complemented Mary's dress beautifully. Sherlock had huffed disdainfully and muttered something about "bloody Mycroft", but Mary was delighted to have the chance to travel in such elegance.

The party was being held at The Criterion. Having been forced to keep their marriage low key due to the ongoing threat of Moriarty's organisation, this first anniversary was the opportunity from Greg and Molly to celebrate as they had originally intended. The Rolls Royce drew to a halt in front of the historic venue at Piccadilly. Whilst their Chauffeur moved round the car to open the door and assist his charges onto the pavement, a uniformed doorman invited them to enter. Neither John nor Sherlock were wearing coats and Mary chose to retain her jacket and shawl, so they bypassed the cloakroom and made their way towards the restaurant.

This place held fond memories for Mary. This was where she had been reunited with John after many years apart. Then it had simply been the act of a compassionate friend at a time of devastating loss, but so quickly the old friendship had become something much deeper and more profound. This was where the path to recovery had begun; from here they returned to Baker Street where they began to build upon their friendship and unpick the illusion of the events at Bart's. That had led them to each other and, from there, to their third; to Sherlock.

Mary could not contain her joy at being back in this place of such significance. She looped her arms through both her beloveds' arms as the three of them passed through the doorway into the exquisitely decorated room. Together, as they should be.

In many respects it did not look vastly different from when they'd last been here. The dining tables had been rearranged to fill much of the elegant space, but otherwise it was much as it had been. The head waiter greeted them as they entered and, having ascertained their names, beckoned across a waitress to guide them to their allocated seating.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable. The Lestrades are not expected for another fifteen minutes. They will be joining you on this table. If you have a gift, I can place it with the others for you. They will be presented after the meal. If there is anything you require throughout the evening, ask any member of staff or ask for me, Farida. Once you're settled, please make your way through to the Terrace to await the arrival of your hosts. Would you care for a drink while you wait, champagne perhaps?"

They all opted for a flute of champagne as Mary slipped out of her jacket and draped it carefully over the back of her chair. She retained her shawl for the time being knowing that, as the evening progressed, the room would warm.

Holding Mary's free hand, John smiled warmly at Sherlock. "Come along, let's mingle. We'll find out how many new secrets and indiscretions people have indulged in since the Yard Christmas party. And remember to play nice Sherlock. I don't want Greg and Molly walking in on a riot."

"As if I would say anything John. I am not an idiot. You know I'm always the soul of discretion." Sherlock feigned a hurt expression, but the twitch of his lips and sparkle in his eyes gave him away. He found it increasingly difficult to lie to John, not that he wanted to ever again. And Mary always saw straight through his deceptions. The ability to see him so clearly and accept the truth of him was one of the many reasons why Sherlock loved these two special people with such fervour. "If people didn't do such imbecilic things …"

"You would be out of a job, laying on the sofa all day shooting holes in the wall, driving Mrs Hudson mad, and complaining of brain rot."

Sherlock grinned back at his partner. "You know me so well." He raised his glass. "A toast. To criminals and imbeciles everywhere. Thank you for keeping my brain entertained."

Mary and John raised their glasses to join the toast. "Here, here."

They moved around the assembled guests as a trio, greeting those they knew and introducing Mary to people she had not met before. Philip Anderson sidled up to Sherlock to introduce his wife. John gave Sherlock a gentle nudge in the ribs to remind him to say nothing of previous history. It was clear Anderson still hadn't got over his newly found hero worship of the Consulting Detective. "I've been reviewing your methods from old case files in an attempt to improve our own forensic procedures at crime scenes. The science is all fine, it's the methodology we follow to process the scene itself that needs improvement …"

Mary let the three men natter away while she chatted with Samantha Anderson; a small but forceful woman who seemed to think her opinion was all that mattered. Mary felt a degree of sympathy for the man who had once been so vindictive towards her boys. It was clear that he was hen-pecked and demeaned by his wife at every turn. She wondered if his spite at Sherlock resulted from being ridiculed at work as well as at home. She knew Sherlock could be cutting when he witnessed work he deemed to be inadequate. Having met Samantha Anderson and her pinched lipped condescension it was of little surprise that Philip felt put-upon.

Mary tried to be polite to the waspish woman by making small talk. "So Samantha, what do you do while Philip is out at the Yard? I imagine his hours are quite irregular." She quickly realised this was totally the wrong question to ask as the sour woman drew up her shoulders and began to set forth on what was obviously a favourite gripe.

"Yes, they are. It is most annoying. I've told him to insist on more regular hours. I don't see why crimes can't be investigated from nine to five like normal jobs."

"Well, I suppose he has to be there as soon as a crime scene is discovered, to collect evidence while it's fresh."

"Yes, yes. That's what he says, but it's most inconvenient. I need my sleep and he's getting calls at all hours of the night, disturbing me. I have to be alert for my job. I'm a teacher you know. Years four to eight. Pre-teens are so difficult, especially for English. I have such a time persuading them not to write in that awful text-speak, and their spelling and grammar are quite shocking. But you're a teacher too aren't you, so you understand how hard it is keeping the little horrors under control. You must find it difficult with your husband being on call. So disruptive to an ordered home life. He's a doctor in Accident and Emergency isn't he? Not a GP with nice, sensible hours. And how do you cope with him running round after that … detective?"

The face she pulled when she mentioned Sherlock was full of scorn. Mary's hackles went straight up. "Actually, I'm not a teacher. I'm a Professor. Of Tropical Medicine actually. One of the foremost authorities in my field. When I'm not lecturing to other doctors, I carry out research and analyse outbreaks around the world. As to John and Sherlock, I'm so proud of what they do. They hunt down criminals and save lives. In fact, John was saying just the other day how helpful Philip is. He was very complimentary of a new procedure Philip is trialing to ensure no evidence is overlooked. You must be so proud."

Samantha looked like she'd sucked a lemon. She grabbed Philip so sharply by the arm that he yelped. Pulling him away from Sherlock and John without apology for her rudeness, she loudly announced that they couldn't be monopolised all evening before dragging her hapless husband across the room and as far from Mary as possible.

Mary sniggered and demurely sipped her champagne as John stared open mouthed at the retreating couple. "What a harridan. I really pity poor Philip."

Sherlock looked thoughtfully. "I'll give him his due, I always thought he was an idiot. How he kept that poisonous harpy a secret, even from me, makes me think he may not be as irredeemable at crime scenes as I once thought."

At that moment, John spotted Noor on the arm of a statuesque Sikh gentleman, presumably her husband. Catching her attention, he guided his partners over to make introductions and become better acquainted.

-0-0-0-

Molly and Greg arrived on schedule, slowly making their way through their guests towards their table. At a signal from Greg, the Master of Ceremonies announced that the meal would commence shortly, asking guests to make their way to their designated tables.

Molly hugged Mary when she arrived at their shared table, then her Aunt Bethany, Greg's brother, Robert and his wife, Dominique. Greg shook hands with the men and hugged the women before holding Molly's chair out for her.

The meal was delightful. Four delicious courses of perfectly prepared dishes drawn to a close by coffee and petit fours. Even Sherlock had made a valiant effort at every dish set before him, restraining himself from his usual habit of snaffling tender morsels from John's plate.

Once Farida had cleared all bar the coffee cups from the table, Sherlock leant forward to slide a golden envelope across the table to Greg and Molly. He had insisted on arranging the gift for the couple and had refused to divulge the contents to either of his partners.

Dominique and Bethany had already excused themselves to freshen up, and Robert had wandered off in pursuit of somewhere to smoke, leaving just the five close friends sitting at the table.

Molly looked questioningly at Sherlock before reaching for the envelope. The flap was merely tucked into the back so Molly had no difficulty opening it and withdrawing the contents. Her eyes went wide with shock and her hand flew to her mouth as Greg leant forward to examine the tickets.

"Sherlock? How? These sold out months ago. This is the hottest ticket in town. How on earth did you get these, and a box too?"

Greg had been able to see they were theatre tickets, but still had no clear view of the production, although, by Molly's excitement, it sounded good. "Come on Molls, what are they?"

"Oh Greg. They're for the revival of 'Much Ado About Nothing' that's just opened. Tickets sold out within a day and they've been impossible to get for months. Linley Safford and his wife, Jamie Plummer are playing Benedick and Beatrice with an all star cast. Every review says it's spectacular. Sherlock, how did you get these? They're too much, just too much."

Sherlock smiled at Molly's excitement. "It was nothing. I asked my brother to sort them out for me. I'm glad you like them."

Greg smirked. "So I should be thanking Mycroft for making my wife so happy then." He knew that, despite the cordial relationship that now existed between the two brothers, there was still a level of sibling rivalry.

Sherlock scowled. "Oh God, don't mention this to Mycroft. He doesn't know, although I'm sure he'll find out soon enough. No, I asked my other brother."

The occupants of the table looked at Sherlock in shock. Mary was the first to ask "Other brother?"

Sherlock seemed surprised by his companions' bewilderment. "I'm sure I've mentioned him before. Of course, we've always kept it quiet, what with the kind of interest Mycroft and I can attract, and he's no better. But even so, I'm sure I've mentioned him."

"Errr, no Sherlock. You definitely haven't. I'd have remembered a third Holmes sibling. Even Mycroft and your parents haven't mentioned him, and he's never been to any of Mummy's gatherings." John was struggling to get his head around the surprising new information his Love had dropped so casually into the conversation.

"No, well he wouldn't. He's either off playing some role, getting ridiculous awards somewhere or other, or being trailed around by the paparazzi."

"So what, your brother's an actor?"

"Yes, of course. Linley Safford Rhys Holmes. My baby brother by five years. In fact, Molly, if you look in the envelope you'll see there's a pass for you both to go backstage after the performance. Linley and Jamie would love to invite you to supper after the performance. I think he wants to thank you both, personally, for helping me with … everything." He flapped his hand in casual dismissal of the years of troubles his friends had helped him through.

"Oh Sherlock, we'd be honoured. Oh, I want to give you a hug, but I'm too shocked to stand at the moment. Give me a moment to catch my breath and we'll thank you properly." The look of delight on his friend's faces resulted in one of Sherlock's rare genuine smiles.

"Obviously, I'll have to ask you to keep his being a Holmes secret. He doesn't need criminals using him to get at Mycroft or myself, and we certainly don't need any more paparazzi camped in Baker Street, blocking the traffic. It's bad enough when we solve a case, or Mycroft starts one of his little wars."

Molly giggled as Greg continued to look shocked. "Of course Sherlock. You're secret's safe with us. Oh, but these are wonderful. I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. Here Greg, put these somewhere safe. I don't want to lose them and my handbag's too small."

Greg placed the envelope in the inside pocket of his jacket, then turned to drain the remainder of his snifter of brandy. "I'm going to see Shakespeare. And there's another Holmes. Bloody hell!"

-0-0-0-

Shortly after Sherlock's bombshell, Farida approached the table to ask if Greg and Molly were ready for the presents. Some thirty minutes later, the Master of Ceremonies announced that the Terrace was now open for dancing.

Greg and Molly shared the first dance, as they had done a year ago at their wedding, then the DJ began playing tunes from across the eras. Greg moved close to John to whisper "It's OK. I've warned him no 'Birdy Dance' or 'Aga Do' or there'll be dire consequences."

"That's a relief. I would like to get a dance with both of them if he plays something decent to waltz to."

"I'll make sure he puts on some nice slow songs in an hour or so if you can persuade his nibs to hang around."

"Shouldn't be a problem. If I can find him that is." John's eyes were scanning the room as he spoke, looking for Sherlock's whereabouts. "Oh hell, he's bumped into Sally. This could be painful."

Greg looked in the direction John indicated. "John, don't panic. I think it'll be OK. Give them a minute before you head over and don't go in all guns blazing. I think you'll find our Sally's perspective has undergone a bit of a shift recently."

John looked at his friend in surprise. "Really?"

Greg grinned. "Yeah. Noor's doing a good job. I think it's a partnership that's going to work, which is good news for both of them."

At that moment, Mary and Molly re-appeared from their visit to refresh their makeup. "Come on John. I want to dance."

With a last look over at Sherlock and Sally talking calmly in the corner, John allowed himself to be led onto the dance floor by his beautiful wife.

As promised, later that evening, the music slowed and John got the opportunity to waltz with Mary, then Mary with Sherlock and, with little persuasion, finally John took Sherlock in his arms, holding each other close as they slowly moved to the music. Much to the bemusement of the non-Yarders, many of the assembled police officers whooped and cheered as the two elegantly dressed men made their slow progress round the dance floor. Mary smiled and wiped a happy tear from her eye as Molly and Greg stood either side of her, their arms lovingly wrapped around their friend. As the song ended, the two men walked to their third and each placed a kiss upon her cheek. Eyes filled with joy, Mary looked between her two men and drew them into a loving embrace, as Greg led his wife to the dance floor, giving his friends a little privacy.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

Muti is 'Medicine Murder' where rituals and the killing of a human, usually a child, create traditional medicine based partly on human flesh. I referred to Wikipedia for information.

'The Birdy Dance' and 'Aga Do' are appalling party songs. You know the ones where everyone gets up and makes total fools of themselves doing all the movements.


	16. The actor, the body and the politician

**Be warned, an angry John is a sweary John.**

* * *

For the return journey to Baker Street in the early hours of the morning, three happy people curled together on the leather upholstery of the Rolls Royce. None of them spoke, they merely snuggled into each other and enjoyed the comfort.

They'd spent the evening talking, dancing, cuddling and simply enjoying being with people they liked. John's second dance with Sherlock attracted further wolf whistles and applause from the Met contingent, prompting them both to turn and bow once the music ended. Molly glowed and Greg couldn't wipe the grin from his face all night. Even Sally came over and spoke pleasantly with them for a few minutes.

It was at breakfast the following morning that John finally succumbed. Sherlock was perched at the kitchen table, nursing a steaming mug of coffee and watching Mary, clad in a floral dressing down, poach eggs. John finally bimbled in looking distinctly sleep rumpled. He kissed Mary, poured himself a coffee then kissed Sherlock before planting himself next to his partner. Only once he'd ingested caffeine did his brain engage sufficiently to allow the question that had been on his mind since last night to burst forth.

"You've got another brother!"

"Yes."

"He's an actor."

"Yes. I'm sure I mentioned."

"No, you really didn't. And he's younger than you, by 5 years?"

"Yes."

"He's won awards and things hasn't he? An Emmy and a Bafta?"

"Two Bafta's, an Emmy, a couple of Laurence Olivier awards and several nominations."

"Didn't he play the dragon in that Hobbit movie?"

"Yes, he played Smaug. I watched the film a couple of times while I was … away. It was grounding to hear his voice. Even if it had been digitally enhanced, the intonations and metre were still his. They'd released the clip as a trailer about six months before I came home. I kept it on my phone to listen to when I doubted myself. Also, the voicemail you'd left asking me to buy milk. You should know, your voice kept me alive more than once."

Suddenly, it dawned on John that Sherlock had still been 'dead' when the film was released. He leant forward, removing Sherlock's mug from his hands, before wrapping his love in a tender embrace.

"It's good you had something of your family to hold on to. I'm so glad you kept fighting to come back to us."

-0-0-0-

The text arrived at 11:20, not long after John had left for his afternoon shift at UCLH. Sherlock had been in his mind palace at the time, reclined on the sofa in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He knew John had left because he remembered the kiss on his forehead, the ruffle of his hair and the feeling of his phone being placed on his stomach.

John had obviously set it to vibrate, as the jiggling of his phone on his stomach had jarred him back to reality. The text was from DI Dimmock. A body in the middle of an abandoned factory. Possible natural causes but the DI felt something was off. Sherlock replied saying he'd be there in forty minutes.

He showered, shaved and dressed before stepping out of the door and hailing a cab to the derelict sail-chandlers warehouse in Limehouse.

The mid-19th century brick building was attractive in its way. It had once been a prime example of the industrial architecture Victorians excelled at. Not too extravagant, but certainly elegant for something as lowly as a sail making factory. Now, is was a boarded up and grafittied mess, although hoardings attached to the exterior showed it was destined for redevelopment into warehouse apartments.

A uniformed constable stopped him at the door until he produced his Met credentials. Once he would have turned his scorn upon the hapless constable, but now he merely reached into his pocket for his wallet whilst his eyes scanned the room beyond the doorway, the policeman already deduced and discounted as insignificant. The DI and the body were located on the second floor, up a filthy cast iron staircase. The floor was thick with dust in places although, at some point it had been cleared of debris, and a clear path through the dust indicated regular foot traffic. Somehow, despite its obvious abandonment for many years, it had avoided the attention of the homeless, drug users and vandals.

Curious, Sherlock stopped on the first floor to poke around. A corridor ran along the front of the building, with three large rooms leading off, each visible only through the small window in the locked door, and each completely open through to the back of the building, apart from the cast iron pillars supporting the floor above, and the brick walls separating the rooms. The floor in each room seemed undisturbed, carpeted in a thick covering of dust. The corridor itself was relatively clear. There was less dust, but evidence of many years accumulation of cigarette butts, and footprints, both working boots and large dogs. Security guards then. That accounted for the lack of break ins. The property was in a prime location for the ever popular warehouse flats so loved by the image conscious professionals employed in the businesses of Canary Wharf. Once redeveloped, these properties would make ideal pied-à –terre for the affluent, with their views across the Thames, and proximity to Docklands, the City and West End.

Returning to the staircase, Sherlock made his way up to the second floor and the very obvious crime scene. The layout was very similar to the f;oor below. DI Dimmock was busy directing operations near the entrance to the second room off of the corridor. Nearby, DS Gellner interviewed a large, middle aged man wearing the hi-vis jacket emblazoned with the name of a security firm – obviously the unfortunate security guard.

"But 'ee can't 'ave bin 'ere' las' night 'cos Charlie would'ave said. No way 'e'd've not said summing. Loves his Morse does Charlie. Any sniff of a body an 'e'd've bin on this like a shot. So that's why the bloke carn'ave bin 'ere when Charlie did 'is rounds."

"OK, we'll have to speak to Charlie. If I call your office will they be able to set up an interview?"

"Don' see why not. Charlie does nights so 'eez not due in 'till six, but yeah, give Jen a call an' she'll see yer right."

Dimmock looked up and spotted the approaching detective. "A mysterious corpse I gather? Not here when the security guard did his round last night, assuming he did do his round, although the lack of break ins implies a thorough and conscientious job by the patrols so no reason to suppose last night was anything out of the ordinary. But this morning our unfortunate lacky finds a body."

"Yep. No signs of foul play, body in the middle of the room, only one set of footprints. Looks like natural causes. And yet something is definitely off. I can't quite put my finger on it but it just doesn't look right."

"Any ID on the victim?"

"Yeah, nothing taken. Driving licence in his wallet along with nearly two hundred quid plus the usual credit cards. Name is Michael Walker. He's a partner in the property development company that owns this building. Fifty-five, married, two children, one still at university. Lives in St John's Wood. Officers have been sent to the home to inform the family and keep an eye on things. The wife says everything was coming good again and, with the economic recovery, would only start getting better financially although they'd experience some money problems through the last few years. She claims the marriage was fine, no affairs or major disagreements, just the money worries, but we'll look closer once we're finished here. She doesn't know why he was here. Says he was out at a business meeting last night followed by dinner, so she wasn't expecting him home until this evening. Apparently it's not unusual for him to crash at the hotel when they have these late night get togethers to schmooze new investors. Said he'd taken his meds with him, so he shouldn't have had any trouble."

"Meds?"

"Yeah, no details as yet. I'll check when I interview the wife."

"Have you secured the hotel room?"

"Yep. Hotel security have it locked down. We'll get someone to check it later, just to cover all the bases, but it's not a priority."

"Was he found in evening wear?"

"No, just a normal suit, jacket, tie, cufflinks, watch all accounted for. The tie was loosened, as if he was having difficulty catching his breath, otherwise it all looks normal. Except, it isn't."

"Let me take a look."

Sherlock entered the room, careful to avoid the covers protecting the footprints. It was obvious by the boot marks where the security guard had entered and approached the body. At least the man was smart enough to stay well clear from the trail of prints. The body itself lay on it's back feet towards the door and head towards the far end of the room. There was no obvious sign that anyone but the victim had been in the room for a very long time. He approached the blue suited forensics tech who was crouched over the body, camera in hand, but not currently taking photos.

"Good morning Anderson. I see the security guard had enough sense to not disturb the footprints. Did he touch the body?"

"Morning Sherlock. He says not, and I can't find any indication that he's lying."

Sherlock felt much more comfortable in this new relationship with Philip Anderson. Much as he loved confrontation, he realised that it had somewhat soured his experience of crime scenes. This calmer, more positive atmosphere was much more pleasant and, surprising, allowed his brain to function more efficiently without the noise caused by harsh looks and snide remarks. Now he wasn't on the lookout for criticism whenever he entered a crime scene, information flowed more freely.

He scanned the body without touching it, drawing his own conclusions. The victim lay on his back, his clothes unruffled apart from his loosened tie and unbuttoned collar. As Dimmock said, as though he couldn't catch his breath. The man was five foot seven, about one hundred and eighty pounds, florid complexion and receding hair, dyed a chestnut brown so, no doubt greying.

His light grey suit was bespoke; a fine wool from a quality tailor. His white cotton shirt was also good quality, and his tie and pocket handkerchief were matching primrose yellow silk. His socks, also primrose yellow and his shoes … ahh, his shoes.

Sherlock turned to the door and called to the DI "You're right Dimmock. This is a suspicious death. I think it may also be a body dump, certainly a staged scene. He was killed elsewhere. Best secure his house and get a team to the hotel room. Probably also his office."

Anderson looked up sharply at the comment. "I knew something was off, but how do you get to a body dump?"

"Come on Philip. You want to improve your crime scene procedures. Tell me what you see."

Anderson initially bristled, expecting sarcasm. Realising Sherlock's request was genuine, he became flustered, having never been asked to work so closely with the Consulting Detective before. Finally he roused himself and, with grim determination, surveyed the scene before him, trying to identify what he'd missed. 'Start from basics, that's the way to do it. _Start with what you know and build from there.'_ He remembered what one of his old forensics professors at Kent University had always tried to drum into his students. Taking a breath to steady himself, he began.

"Middle aged man. Found in situ, life extinct, at approximately ten thirty five. Police and ambulance called to the scene. Time of death estimated at approximately three to five hours before, around six hundred hours give or take an hour. Post Mortem will confirm. No obvious sign of trauma except the loosened tie and collar. Good quality suit, matching tie, pocket square and socks, brown shoes. Oh, right. Why would a man dressed in such high quality clothes match a grey suit with cheap brown shoes?"

"Good. Now look at the shoes. What do they tell you?"

Anderson leant over, looking at the shoes, uppers and soles. "They're very cheap high street, and old, scuffed, well worn. Recently resoled and re-heeled with smooth rubber." He picked up one of the victim's ankles and the shoe nearly fell off his foot. "Oh, they're not his shoes. They're too big."

"Correct. This man is five seven. Even if he had big feet he would take nothing more than about a size nine. These shoes are a size eleven. What about the soles?"

"There's nothing."

"Correct. But look at this floor. It's covered in dust to the extent that there are obvious trails of footprints. Yet there is no trace of dust anywhere on the soles of those shoes except at the very back of each heel where they contact the floor."

"So he didn't walk here."

"No. What else? What made you suspicious originally?"

"The footprints were off. There was a single trail to the body, then a strange scuffling. There's no dragging of feet or weaving. It looked like he'd walked into the room with no problem, done a bit of a jig then collapsed. But if that was the case, how was he on his back with no disturbance around the body? There's no evidence that he moved once he hit the floor, so he didn't writhe or roll onto his back. He simply fell straight backwards but facing towards the direction he'd just walked. Anyway, there's no dust on the front of his suit so he can't have gone down face forwards."

"Good. And?"

Anderson looked again, wracking his brain for what he'd missed. "Handprints. There are no handprints around the body. If he went down face first he'd have put his hands out to save himself. If he'd had to sit down suddenly he'd have put his hands down to steady himself. Even if he'd collapsed and somehow twisted as he fell to land on his back his hands would have hit the floor. But there are no handprints." Anderson picked up the victims hands and scrutinized them carefully. "And there's no significant dust trace on his palms. If he'd put his hand out to save himself, the grime would be ground in. All he has is a light dusting on fingertips and lower palm where his hands rested gently on the floor."

Sherlock leant forward, his pocket magnifier in his hand as he studied the exposed fingertips. "Ahh, puncture marks. From a finger-prick glucose tester. Our victim was diabetic. Probably used regular insulin injections. No doubt the meds his wife referred to. People who inject insulin usually need to check their blood sugar level first so they can adjust the dose."

"So what, he died from insulin shock elsewhere and someone moved him here?"

"Now, now, let's not jump to conclusions. We have a victim, moved here from where he died. The state of his clothing indicates he dressed himself. There is no sign of obvious violence or injury on the body. His shoes have been replaced by cheap alternatives in the wrong size and colour. Brown shoes with a light grey suit, really? Now, why?"

"Well, there's only one set of footprints into the room and they're a size 11, smooth soled. In fact, to all intents and purposes they match the shoes the victim is wearing."

"Exactly. Well done. Now let's look at these foot prints." Anderson removed the protective covers to they could get a better look. "Here Anderson, take a close up of this. See that slight double mark in the dust?"

"Yes, like the print was made twice."

"Precisely. The perpetrator walked in carrying the victim, placed him on the floor, arranged the scene as best he could, then walked out backwards, carefully stepping in the footprints he'd already made. He made the mistake of carrying the body the wrong way round, so when he put him down he realised he was on his back not his face. He couldn't adjust without leaving tell-tale signs so he had to make do. Hence the scuff marks, to try to give the impression that the victim somehow turned himself around before he collapsed. The tie and collar would have been loosened to give the impression of some sort of seizure."

"So the shoes had to be the same size as the victim's to maintain the illusion."

"Yes. Quite poorly premeditated. Our murderer, for I believe he is, wears size eleven shoes. He gets two similar pairs, by the look of these, from a charity shop, has them both resoled to match, smooth rubber to make the footprints easier to fake. It's almost impossible to match patterns like for like. He murders the victim, replaces his shoes, then brings him to this building and carefully stages the scene, but not carefully enough. He gets the position of the body wrong and forgets about the hand prints."

"So how do you think he was murdered?"

"We'll have to wait for the pathology report, but I'd take a careful look at his blood levels. I doubt it was anything exotic like good old fashioned arsenic. Given the probabilities, I suspect his potassium levels will be high. Not high enough to raise alarm in normal circumstances, but high enough to kill a long term diabetic who'd been indulging himself in overly rich food and alcohol last night. I wouldn't be surprised if his insulin level is also unusual. It's easy enough to switch out a diabetic's insulin for something like potassium chloride. Of course, to maintain the illusion, the insulin injection would still need to be given otherwise his low insulin would raise questions. After all, the plan was to make this look like natural causes, not suicide. His wife said he had a business function last night and would have stayed overnight at a hotel. You'll need to go over that room. The hotel claim it hasn't been cleaned. See if you can find evidence of a visitor, probably around breakfast time. You did well Anderson. I believe you can take it from here."

Anderson nodded behind his mask, but Sherlock could see the shine in his eyes. No, not irredeemable at all.

Sherlock made his way to the DI. "Dimmock, the hotel room?"

"Yep, I just got the call from our team. Hotel security got there just as the maid was going in to clean. They secured the room and have only let our team in. They've found a breakfast with evidence of two people and his insulin kit. Also, one of the room keys was found dropped in the lobby and handed in. Nothing on CCTV. We've secured it for prints. How much do you bet we won't find the victim's prints on it. Do you think it was a lover?"

"No. I think it was a man who wears size eleven shoes, is quite fit but has little money. He also has easy access to the victim's insulin and knows his way around chemicals. What did you say the younger son was studying?"

"Medicine at Bristol according to the wife, but he's home at the moment due to some problems. She wouldn't specify what."

"I think you'll find those problems are linked to the financial problems she mentioned, and the son blames the father for the situation. I'd take a close look at the son. Whoever did this wanted the death ruled natural causes and tried to keep the mess as far from the family as possible. Dumping the body here was as much to throw us off the scent as to have revenge on his father. I suspect this building was a bone of contention within the family. The hoardings outside have been there for at least five years. Perhaps the development of this building seemed to mean more than the welfare of his family. The level of security showed a willingness to pay a premium to keep this building secure over a number of years. I have no doubt last night's meeting was to proceed with the redevelopment plans. Yes, this building was definitely at the centre of whatever disagreement lead to murder. "

"But why not the older son, or the business partner?"

"Because this whole thing was overly complicated. Someone with youth, but little experience or common sense. No doubt grown up on a diet of TV detective shows. He went to all this trouble when it would have been simpler to just leave the body in the hotel room to be discovered by the staff. That would have been much more likely to be ruled natural causes, especially as the victim was in a business meeting last night so was no doubt over indulging. By staging the body in such an unusual setting it caused more attention than the murderer intended. As you yourself said, it looks like natural causes but something is off. To an experienced eye, discrepancies were glaringly obvious, things an amateur would never notice."

"So where do we go from here?"

"Anderson has this scene under control. Don't look so shocked. He's come on a long way, and made some good observations today. And no, I'm not taking the piss as John so eloquently puts it. I'm confident Anderson will cope very well. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an experiment at home that needs my attention. Goodbye Inspector."

And with that, Sherlock Holmes left the scene.

-0-0-0-

It took John eight days to finally corner Mycroft in his office at the Diogenes Club. John was not best pleased and, although the delay had taken the edge off his anger, it had allowed his rage to sink in deep and fester. Mycroft may have been unaware of the reason for John's urgent demands to see him; requests that had to be delayed due to meetings overseas, but now Mycroft was back in London and prepared to address whatever misdemeanour had the good Doctor so disgruntled. However, when the footman showed Captain John Watson into the office Mycroft immediately realised the source of his visitor's ire. He was also well aware that nothing but the absolute truth would appease the man before him who was only controlling his anger by wrapping himself in his officer persona. No diplomatic tricks, manipulation or half-truths would suffice. It had been a long time since the skills of the diplomat, or sheer charm, had not won Mycroft the outcome he desired. It was a measure of John Watson and his extraordinarily fearlessness that forced Mycroft to resort to complete truth.

"You bloody arse, Mycroft! What the hell do you think you're playing at? I know you think Sherlock is your plaything, but how dare you use his fundamental trust of you to manipulate him into a dangerous situation. What the hell were you thinking?" Captain Watson had marched smartly from the door and was now standing, ram-rod straight, in front of Mycroft's desk, almost trembling with rage.

Mycroft blinked slowly under the onslaught. He sought to deflect in order to buy himself some time. "Sherlock trust me? I think not Doctor. Sherlock has not trusted me since he was five years old."

"Of course he bloody trusts you, you pillock. He may think you're a smarmy, manipulative, lying wanker who'll do anything to meet your own ends, but you're still his big brother and he believes with total conviction that you will never deliberately hurt him. Or those he loves."

"Ah."

"Yes, you tosspot. Ah. Care to explain what you're playing at throwing him to the wolves without any warning, and painting a bloody great bullseye not only on him, but on me, Mrs Hudson and Mary. What were you thinking Mycroft, or were you even thinking at all?"

"Hmmm. Rare as it may be but I may have acted a little rashly. You must understand, the British Government are under intense pressure to stop this human trafficking ring." Mycroft paused, rose from behind his desk and walked round towards his arm chairs, a hand on John's back guiding his guest to join him. The large, leather wing-back chairs were surprisingly comfortable, not that that was Mycroft's only reason for choosing to continue the discussion there. He hoped that the more informal position would ease some of the anger in John. It was certainly more comfortable than having the angry ex-soldier simmering in barely suppressed fury as he stood before Mycroft's desk. For a short man, John Watson had certainly mastered the art of looming.

Having reached the chairs and positioned himself comfortably, Mycroft ensured his guest was suitably seated before continuing.

"As you know, this is an international smuggling operation, dealing mostly with children for the sex trade. It appears to be fairly global, but the bulk of the trade is between Europe and Asia. Europeans find Asians exotic and vice versa. It's an extensive and very lucrative business, which many agencies are co-operating to stop. Unfortunately, despite our vast combined resources, we have little to show for it, and this abhorrent trade continues. What intelligence we have gleaned seems to indicate the organisation is controlled from Britain. Attempts to take out local branches have had little impact. Much like a hydra, chop off a head and another appears in its place. The British Government are coming under increasing pressure to bring this to a close, and to do that we need to draw out the ring leaders. I determined that making it clear Sherlock was part of the investigation could well be enough of a draw. After all, he is the man who brought down Moriarty. The criminal community are very familiar with him and his results. If he is on the case then …"

"They will either come out fighting and show themselves or piss off for a bit until Sherlock gets bored and finds something else to hold his interest."

"Well, yes. As always your analysis is crude but accurate. We hope for the former, but if they do 'piss off' as you so refreshingly put it, the change in their actions may be enough to provide further intelligence and allow us a way in."

"Big problem with your thinking though Mycroft. Everyone knows that Sherlock faked his suicide to protect his friends. If they come after Sherlock they don't have to make a run at him. He's got family now, and I don't just mean Mary and me. There's Greg and Molly. Did you know Molly's pregnant? No, I thought not. And then there's Mary's family. Her parents, her brother and two sisters, not to mention their ever expanding broods. Between her siblings they seem to have produced a new niece or nephew almost every year. Her brother has three kids with the oldest only just starting Uni. So you're talking twelve children, all in the right age group and mostly with the right looks; fair and blue eyed. In fact, Jackie, her next younger sister, has eight year old twins, a boy and girl, both blonde, cute and mischievous. They'd be a prime target for traffickers. Did you look into Sherlock's wider family Mycroft? Did you even think?"

Mycroft looked as abashed as possible. At the mention of Mary's many relatives, he'd almost recoiled in disgust, sinking back into the leather and shadows of the chair.

John continued, the silence of the politician before him doing nothing to appease his anger. "Ah, so you didn't think Mycroft. You assumed that, what, Sherlock would work out your scheme without you having to warn him, that I'd play along as always and protect him, and what, you'd leave Mary, our friends and our family hanging. We're due to go to Jackie's this weekend for a family birthday party. They'll all be there. The kids call him Uncle Locky you know. They love him and, you may be shocked to hear, he dotes on them. Yeah, I bet that's a surprise to you. We'll have to cancel now. It's too dangerous to go. And what about his homeless network? His kids in Camden? We visited the house just last week. If Sherlock is being followed every single person he is in regular contact with is a potential target. A target that you put there. How are you going to deal with that Mycroft? How are you going to protect them all?"

Mycroft noted the flexing of John's left hand and the tightness of his jaw. He had to accept that he had miscalculated badly, having been forced to make the decision quickly at the instigation of his secret service opposite numbers. He'd felt at the time that he had insufficient information, but had been ordered by the Prime Minister to clean this up quickly, whilst being pressured to provide a clear course of action on the spot. He'd never really thought of Sherlock having family. Yes, he lived with John and Mary, but family, children, never featured in Mycroft's picture of his brother. Now he realised he was unaware of large areas of his brother's life.

"I'm sorry John. I didn't realise."

Seeing the usually smug Mycroft Holmes so contrite took some of the heat out of John's temper. "No, you didn't. So how do we deal with this?"

"If you'll contact Sherlock and ask him to meet us here, now, I have a few people I need to consult. I think an immediate revision of our strategy is necessary." Mycroft stood and moved towards his desk, but paused halfway to his goal. He turned his shoulders and partially looked over his shoulder at his guest, as much to hide his shame for his lack of forethought as to retain some authority in the situation. "And John, I am sorry. I sometimes overlook who Sherlock has become. That is an error I shall not repeat."


	17. Plots, ploys and machinations

The meeting with Mycroft had been taxing to say the least. At first Sherlock had been loath to attend, and only relented when John explained the danger their friends and family currently faced. That Mycroft was the cause was enough to get Sherlock sweeping into the office at the Diogenes Club in a whirl of smug indignation within thirty minutes of John's call.

"Mycroft, you myopic ignoramus. I knew you were dragging me into one of your oh so clever schemes without giving me all the facts, but to endanger innocents is incomprehensible."

"Well Sherlock, it's not as if you made me aware you'd garnered an extended family. Children Sherlock? Or should I say Uncle Locky?" Mycroft's sneer was too much for John, who stepped in before Sherlock's anger escalated the situation beyond redemption.

"No need to get nasty Mycroft. You cocked up. Accept it and move on. Taunting your brother because you didn't do your homework about Mary's family isn't going to help the situation. So both of you, grow the fuck up. We've got to create a new strategy before this blows up in our faces."

Sherlock threw himself onto Mycroft's sofa with a glare of satisfaction at his brother. John could always be counted upon to put Mycroft in his place.

Mycroft made his way across the room with all the aplomb he could muster, sitting himself with great dignity in the armchair facing the sofa. He placed his hands gently upon the arm rests and held his brother's gaze with an impassive look that belied his inner anger at his own failings in both intelligence gathering and manipulation of the current situation. He was slipping. He had not questioned the lack of information about Mary's family despite knowing she had siblings. Negotiations overseas had prevented him from attending John and Mary's wedding so he had not met her family members, but he had seen the surveillance footage of the guests, and more surprisingly, the children who had shown great affection for Sherlock throughout the celebrations. He should also have noted the familial resemblance to Mary. Both events should have caused him to question the lack of data not only about Mary but also about his brother's new sentiments. He had fallen into the trap Sherlock so often berated the fools at Scotland Yard over: he had seen, but not observed.

His second mistake was allowing the Prime Minister's office, and the fools from the Home Office and Security Services to manoeuvre him into making strategic decisions in haste whilst using his brother as a pawn. He then compounded the error by giving Sherlock insufficient information. It was a hangover from their childhood. He had boasted so often to Sherlock about his own superior intelligence, when really it was age, experience and obfuscation when dealing with his little brother that had given him the advantage. Mycroft was excellent at seeing the wider picture and could observe indicators as fast, if not faster than his younger brother, but he was not as schooled in the field of criminality as Sherlock. Where Mycroft saw affairs, Sherlock saw jealousy, where Mycroft saw espionage, Sherlock saw blackmail and murder. When pushed he assumed he could use Sherlock as had had always done, as a mere pawn who was clever enough to avoid the worst of any situation. Using Sherlock in tricky situations whilst giving him the barest of information had won Mycroft significant support and respect from his superiors and other agencies in the past. His oversight in not taking into account his brother's changed circumstances now raised the ugly spectre of catastrophic failure, and worse, embarrassment for the British Government.

A few men and women, in suits and uniforms, began to arrive, shown in by the ever discreet Diogenes Club staff. Mycroft had already ordered refreshments to keep voices lubricated and blood sugar levels up throughout the no-doubt tempestuous meeting to come.

One portly, balding man in a three piece suit blustered in, his demeanour demanding the respect and attention of everyone in the room. "Well Holmes, why are we discussing this again? I thought we had it all squared away. I've got better things to do than drop everything for a priority one meeting just because you can't dot the I's and cross the T's."

Mycroft bristled at the disrespectful tone. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he scrutinised the man who belittled his brother. Mid fifties, Eton and Oxford, closeted homosexual but saw it as a predilection from his public school days, not as homosexuality, similarly his fondness for mild bondage and, ah yes, being beaten. Married to a younger woman who cared more for position and money than her husband's extra-marital activities. Two children, boy and girl, both left home. Career civil servant in the Home Office. Liked to portray the role of a military man though he'd never seen action. Had served in the Army, but only in administration and as an adjutant before joining the Civil Service when he finished his military service.

Mycroft did not allow the man's assumed superiority to annoy him. Instead he rose from his armchair and extended his hand, pleased when the man shook it with an air of forced civility. "Andrew. I'm glad you could interrupt your busy schedule to attend. I know you had an important meeting to attend this afternoon. It's gratifying that you were able to rearrange it at such short notice." Sir Andrew stopped abruptly in his march towards the meeting table on the far side of Mycroft's office, his face paling slightly as he realised Mycroft knew exactly where and with whom his 'meeting' was scheduled. "And how is Cyprian?" Now the bald man blanched and his knees became a little unsteady as Mycroft named his most recent bed mate. "Oh, you seem a little tired. Please take a seat while we await our colleagues. There is water on the table. Help yourself. Other refreshments are arriving shortly so we can begin. And, to be clear, this is not a grammatical error, merely that new information has recently been brought to my attention requiring a modification to our original tactics."

-0-0-0-

The arrival of representatives from the police, Home Office and security services brought the impromptu meeting to order. The goal: to draw the so far unidentified ring leaders out into the open.

Several hours of debate and negotiations only succeeded in causing angry shouting. Strategies had been suggested, possible goals discussed and discarded, tactics and plans proposed and rejected as too complicated or unworkable. All the while, John sat quietly in the corner taking in what was said, contributing nothing except a calming hand to Sherlock's arm, and receiving pointed looks from senior officials who wondered about the scruffy little man in the corner sipping tea.

Finally, when another impasse was reached, John uncrossed his legs, set down his tea cup, and stood up. Captain Watson had now entered the debate and would be heard.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, from what I understand you have very little intelligence about the organisation we are up against. You know how the lower levels operate and have locations, mostly across the Capital, of rendezvous points. You have eyes on many of their bases of operation overseas. However, you are unable to locate how the victims are transported either within the UK or overseas. You have no idea who is masterminding this international organisation, but are fairly certain it is headquartered In the UK. You know the bank account money is paid into, but due to international banking restrictions, have no official access and the holder's identity is unknown, even to the bank itself. You see money going in, but have so far seen no-one accessing the account to take money out. You don't want to freeze the account or flag it in any way so you don't tip them off or spook them, all in the hopes they will tip their hand. In other words you've got not a lot that you can use. What you want to do is force the leaders to stick their heads above the parapet so you can get a bead on them. You want to use Sherlock to do it because he has no official status and is therefore expendable, and we want to keep civilians, specifically our family, safe. Avoid further collateral damage. Does that about sum things up?"

As many in the room nodded in agreement with the small man's assessment as shook their heads in disbelief at the upstart.

Anthea, who sat beside Mycroft in her role as his PA, cleared her throat gently, drawing attention to herself for the first time. "Apart from the recipient bank account, we know the victims are advertised on various sites and pages that cater for this kind of deviance. Obviously most of these are highly secret with members going to great lengths to hide their identities. One code that has occurred more regularly than can be explained by coincidence is four one one. We have not been able to decipher its meaning, however it does appear to be linked to the organisers of this syndicate, the numbers also appearing as part of the account holder's identity code. Again, it could simply be coincidence, and the numbers may be meaningless, or may have some special meaning within the organisation."

Mycroft smiled at his PA. "Thank you my dear."

John nodded his acknowledgement to the woman who he had known for so long. He could feel Sherlock's surge of excitement at her words. Obviously this little titbit of information was new to him, and even from the few feet John was standing from him, he could almost hear Sherlock's mind assimilating the new information.

Straightening his back again, John resumed addressing the room. "Well then, let's play on Sherlock's unofficial status, as you've already made him the focus of attention in London." He shot a sharp glare at Mycroft, who merely raised his eyebrows in return, leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers upon his chin as he surveyed the room from his position at the head of the table. John let his gaze sweep around the other occupants of the room, his posture stiff, his hands clasped behind his back as he stood at ease, as though he were giving a unit of privates a lecture on STIs rather than discussing tactics with some of the highest ranking intelligence officers and civil servants in Britain.

"I suggest we do it the old fashioned way; cut off their supply lines to force them into action. We keep it looking like an amateur show, keep the surveillance low key and the officials out of sight. Use Sherlock's Homeless Network to intercept victims coming into London and bundle them off into safe houses. They'll know Sherlock is involved, but not to what extent. They'll need to find out how much he knows and who he's working with. It could just be he's heard something on the streets and is taking action to protect his people, or he could be working with the Met, or with other agencies. They will need to find out and fast before they can plan further action. After all, if it's unofficial they can just whack him on the head, job done. If he's part of a wider investigation they'll need more extreme measures. Judging by the goons I've seen so far, they're going to have to use someone with specific skills to move this on, and that's going to make things a lot easier to track."

Mycroft's eyes flicked from his cool appraisal of John, standing tall forever the soldier, to his brother's face who was staring at John with proud admiration. Mycroft had to admit, John was still a surprise, even after all the years he'd known him. He now understood why Sherlock called John his Conductor of Light. John had taken available intelligence, processed it and come up with a simple, workable, intelligent plan.

It took another two hours for the strategy to be accepted and the details thrashed out.

Then came the fun part: explaining everything to Mary.

* * *

**STI - sexually transmitted infection**


	18. A new strategy

**A short chapter, but, none the less, essential.**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated. Have your say on my ramblings. It makes writing more fun.**

* * *

It took a week to get the revised plan fully operational across London. Every major terminus including tube stations and Victoria Bus Station, had members of the homeless network on patrol, looking out for young runaways and guiding them to safe accommodation. Sherlock had been busy organising his people and providing his trusted coordinators with phones and emergency contacts. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to all but a select few, Mycroft had arranged enhanced surveillance, both on the ground and through CCTV, to try to capture members of the gang and follow them to their bases.

In the meantime, a group of students moved into the flat opposite 221B. They were in and out at all hours of the day and night. They regularly popped into Speedy's or helped Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner with their shopping, often being offered tea and biscuits by way of thanks. Always polite and courteous, they quickly became part of the background in that part of Baker Street. That at least one student always remained in the flat was not noticed.

It took a little over a month, but the agitation of the gang members as they grew increasingly frustrated at their lack of success in finding new merchandise told its own tale. The supply of youngsters in London was seriously diminished and the henchmen were feeling the wrath of their bosses. One pair got so frustrated that they tried to drag a young girl away from the homeless woman who was guiding her towards the exit. A couple of customers in the concourse coffee shop (actually undercover officers) intervened and sat on the two men until the police arrived to cart them away.

The plan appeared to be working. It looked like Sherlock's network of homeless informants were working unofficially to protect the regular stream of new runaways in London. The security officers and police who were operating behind the scenes stayed out of sight, their presence unknown and undetectable.

If all went as intended the next move would be against Sherlock himself. The traffickers would need to know how much Sherlock knew before they could make any overt move against him. Whether he was working officially or unofficially would inform how they proceeded.

Everything was in place. All they could do now was wait.


	19. Taking the bait

**At last, we revisit The Prologue.**

**Thanks to ashleywinchester78 for her tumblr reblog prompting me to write just one sentence. This tuned into a four hour marathon and a completed chapter.**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated. Have your say on my ramblings. It makes writing more fun.**

* * *

Mary had adapted well to the cameras almost invisibly installed in the kitchen, living room and stairwell of Flat B. Knowing they were for their protection made ignoring them so much simpler. It wasn't as if she flounced around the flat in her underwear, although she did now make a point of ensuring her dressing gown was securely tied before venturing downstairs. Sherlock seemed oblivious, still appearing in his sheet on a regular basis. John, of course, didn't care. Long experience in the Army had removed any inhibitions about his body, and exposure to Sherlock had removed embarrassment about his scar. If anything, he walked around the flat naked more often since the cameras were installed. Mary hadn't questioned her husband's new found exhibitionism, appreciating the beauty of the man, however she suspected, judging by Sherlock's knowing smirks, that John's nudity was an attempt to discomfort Mycroft.

At Mycroft's instigation, cameras had also been installed in the main hallway of 221B and showing Mrs Hudson's back door: the only reasonable entry point to her flat other than the front door, and the only place she would allow any kind of surveillance. "I'm an old lady Mycroft Holmes. I fought long and hard to reclaim my dignity and now I've got it I shall keep it until my dying day. You tell your filthy herberts to stay out of my bedroom. The only gentlemen who go in there are the ones I invite."

With a mildly unsettled grimace, Mycroft apologised, but gained Mrs Hudson's permission to allow Anthea to ensure the bedroom windows were still appropriately secure.

221B had been refitted with high security windows and doors prior to Sherlock's return. All access points to the building had been secured, but, at the insistence of the residents of 221B, no interior surveillance had been installed. The work had been carried out as part of the refit of Flat C as Sherlock's lab and reception room where he could meet clients and work on cases. The flat itself had been sound proofed, fire proofed and fitted with a highly advanced security system to prevent any unauthorized entry. It could also be used as a secure room (Sherlock declared the term 'panic room' imbecilic and refused to use it) in the event of any repercussions from the Work. Once someone was in the flat, the door could only be opened from the inside unless the environmental controls detected an emergency. If all else failed, the door could be unlocked remotely by Mycroft's people. Mycroft still feared Sherlock would take advantage of the isolation to relapse, the fear of his overdose never quite leaving the elder sibling despite Sherlock's long years of sobriety.

It only took a short while for the residents of 221B to completely ignore their electronic interlopers and continue life as normal. It fell to John to sit down with Mrs Hudson and explain that she was quite safe and should go about her life as normal. The only thing she had to do was let John or Sherlock know if she noticed anything untoward. She also had a new phone number on her mobile and her landline in case of emergencies when no-one else was available.

"I've put the number on you mobile Mrs H, but I need to disguise it as something. Perhaps the name of a gentleman friend, as I see you have a few male names on here already."

The older lady smiled, flapping her hand at her lodger. "When you get to my age there are so few decent gentlemen. It's always best not to burn your bridges. You never know when you may need a charming companion."

John found the sight of a coquettish Mrs Hudson quite endearing. "I don't blame you. It's nice to stay on good terms with old, um, acquaintances. Now, this number. It needs to be something you'll remember."

"Use Albert. I'll remember that. I've never met an Albert I liked. Heaven knows why I actually married one. I should've known he'd be a pig. Yes dear, Albert."

John updated the phone, handing it back to his landlady. It was strange to realise he'd never known the name of Martha Hudson's vile and disgraced husband. Of course Sherlock had met the man, had actually worked for him whilst gathering evidence against him, then, with Mrs Hudson's help, had facilitated his arrest and conviction. It seemed, for Mrs Hudson at least, the execution had been the icing on the cake, finally freeing her from years of abuse and degradation. It would be strange, John mused, that Albert was now assisting in the protection of their precious landlady.

-0-0-0-

Having visited a few of his homeless network in the morning, Sherlock had spent much of the day engrossed in the analysis of soil samples that could identify where the body of a missing kidnap victim was hidden. The kidnappers had been apprehended by the Met, but only one of the four man gang new the final fate of the victim and he wasn't talking. Given that nothing had been heard from the victim for twelve days and the gang had been in custody for two of those it was highly likely that they were now looking for a body. Soil samples along with the usual evidence from the gang's clothes, shoes and vehicles had been taken by Forensics Services for analysis. However as always, the sheer volume of evidence being processed caused delays despite the priority. As there was still a faint possibility the victim was alive, DCI Lestrade took the unusual step of allowing Sherlock access to the suspect's vehicle once Forensics had finished with it. He'd found soil in the tread of the tyres, mud stuck in the wheel arch and dirty footprints on the mat in the driver's foot well.

Sherlock was so engrossed in his work that he ignored the repeated pings of his phone as new messages were received. After three hours of intensive work, with only the occasional pause when Molly brought him coffee and chatted happily about colleagues and the progress of her pregnancy, he finally stretched and grinned to himself. Taking his phone from his jacket pocket he texted Lestrade.

'Tell your team you're looking for a building bordering a vineyard in the area around Box Hill. They keep Golden Guernsey goats and Nera chickens nearby, and a tabby cat. Check with DEFRA and local vets for a farm with those breeds - SH'

'how' pinged back almost immediately. Lestrade probably needed further information to convince the lead DI to take action. Sherlock snorted with disgust. They still didn't just accept his word. Idiots.

'deposits in the wheel arch contain traces of grape pollen, animal hair and feathers. Forensics will confirm eventually.'

Only a minute later, the DCI replied. 'Ok gd wrk.'

Having washed his hands, he retrieved the package of tissue samples Molly had prepared for him, grabbed his coat and headed for the door, checking his texts as he went. He was just debating whether he should stop at the corner shop for milk having used the last that morning when one of the texts, received at 14:36, stopped him in his tracks.

'14:36 Intruder detected in Flat B'

'14:49 Intruder exited Flat B'

Anger flashed across his face as he strode purposely towards the exit of Barts, oblivious to everything except his phone and a pressing need to get back to Baker Street.

"Mycroft. The intruder. Have you made an ID?"

"And good afternoon to you brother. I do hope you're not so impolite to your new relations."

"Jealous Mycroft? You could always form a mutually beneficial alliance with a lonely blueblood of respectable habits and low capital to create your own brood."

"Ah yes, breeding. Not really your area is it?"

"Piss off Mycroft. My relationship is my own and none of your damn business. Now, my flat. Your automated system notified me of an intruder in MY HOME for thirteen minutes. What did they do and where are they now?"

There was a pause from the other end of the phone. Sherlock could detect an indrawn breath followed by a quiet exhalation.

"Mycroft, what aren't you telling me?"

"We don't know what they did. Whoever it was cut power to the building for the duration of their visit; we're investigating their method. The outage blacked out the cameras. We weren't prepared for this level of sophistication. Contingent upon this intruder's actions, we may be able to contrive access to Flat C for the installation of a temporary generator to prevent this happening again. The delivery and installation of a modest mass spectrometer perhaps or some other laboratory equipment would provide appropriate cover? However, the good news is they were occupied in 221B long enough for us to arrange a surveillance team. Our agents are still in contact with the target. A positive outcome is anticipated. In the meantime you will need to carry out a security sweep. Surreptitiously of course."

"Of course Mycroft, I'm not one of your idiotic minions. I will expect delivery of the mass spectrometer and a generator tomorrow. Have one of your lackey's text me a time. Goodbye brother, and do keep me informed of the outcome of your hunt."

"Of course Sherlock. I await the details of your own treasure hunt."

Mycroft set down his phone and leant back in his chair. His payment for the failure in security was an extremely expensive new toy for Sherlock's proliferating laboratory. He reached for his phone and pressed the number one on his speed-dial. Anthea answered in her usual prompt fashion, listened closely to her instructions, before the call ended with a brief "Of course, Sir".

Mycroft again leant back in his chair and spent a moment to contemplate his brother's suggestion of forming an alliance. The idea had merit and, although he had rejected the notion in his youth, with the approach of middle age the idea of producing an heir, and perhaps enjoying moments of companionship with a like-minded soul held increasing appeal. And Mummy would be delighted.

-0-0-0-

The cab pulled up outside 221B. Sherlock took a moment to school his features and calm his mind as he paid the fare.

He couldn't tell precisely what had caused goosebumps on his flesh and his heart rate to rise as he'd journeyed from Barts towards the unknown situation at Baker Street. Acting as normal he unlocked the front door then leafed through their post that Mrs Hudson normally left on a small table in the hallway. Using those few seconds he checked for any obvious signs of intrusion. Apart from a large cardboard box beside the door of Flat C and a cloying, artificially floral scent from Mrs Hudson's, everything appeared as he had left it that morning. Returning the post, all addressed to Mr or Mrs Watson, to the table, Sherlock made his way up the stairs, his steps slower than normal as he scanned for disturbance. Even the eleventh step seemed undisturbed, which allowed him some small relief. With luck the intruder had failed to notice the small panic button discreetly installed under the carpet at the edge of the stair. Sherlock despised the term 'panic button', but given the item's sole function, he had to accept the name was generally appropriate.

As he paused on the threshold of the flat some disturbance in its atmosphere caused him to become suddenly alert. Uncertain of what awaited him and unwilling to tip his hand he reached into his pocket for his mobile, feigning a text message as he assessed the evidence of an intruder.

Sherlock had been the last person to leave 221B that day. Mary and John had both left for work that morning, John for his shift at University College Hospital A&amp;E and Mary for her lectures at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine. Neither was expected back until early evening. Sherlock had left in late morning, first to catch up with his homeless network, then to visit New Scotland Yard before joining Molly at Barts to run his soil analysis and to collect some tissue samples for his latest experiments.

Standing on the threshold of their flat Sherlock surreptitiously studied the carpet in the door way. Faint indentations from work boots had crushed the fibre. So, someone had entered the flat. Not a surprise as it was doubtful anyone would break in to spend thirteen minutes standing in the doorway.

Still appearing to study his phone Sherlock let out an exasperated hiss then turned on his heel and stomped down the stairs towards Flat A, bellowing for Mrs Hudson. As he descended in a swirl of Belstaff and annoyance his eyes scanned the hallway looking for any disturbance, any clue, any sign of the intruder's intent.

Above the front door, tucked into the corner under the fanlight Sherlock spotted a tiny camera. Now he knew what he was looking for he marched to Mrs Hudson's door and knocked.

Looking flustered, his landlady opened her door, wiping her floury hands on her apron, removing the remains of her latest batch of baking.

"What is it Sherlock?" Her annoyance at his demanding bellows was obvious in her voice and the tight pinch of her mouth and around her eyes. "I could hear you shouting down the stairs. What's the matter?"

With a look of fond exasperation he took her shoulders and eased her gently backwards into her flat, kicking her front door shut behind him.

The abominable floral scent assailed his nostrils, stronger now he was inside her living room. A trace of white by the leg of her armchair confirmed his observations, if further confirmation was needed; she'd cleaned her carpets earlier in the day with that dreadful powder.

"Mrs Hudson, I noticed a parcel in the hallway."

"Yes dear. It's for you. The courier delivered it just before I went out. I'd just finished the dusting when he rang. I made him take it down the hall and showed him where to leave it."

"What time was this?"

"About twenty past two. He left the parcel, I signed his horrible pad thing, then he left."

"You were with him all the time."

"Yes dear. All the time."

"And you went out."

"Yes. Well not right away. I had to make sure I'd got my things together by the front door before I finished sprinkling my carpets. You know that powder gets everywhere and you can't walk on it while it's working. So I popped the hoover in the hall ready for when I got back and nipped round to Mrs Turner's for an hour or so."

"And when you got back, everything was the same?"

"Yes dear. Well, I think so. Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"No mysterious footprints in your carpet powder?"

"No dear. You're scaring me Sherlock. Has something happened? Is it something to do with the camera Mycroft put above my door? I told him I didn't want any in my flat but he never listens."

"Camera? When did you find it?"

"Today, well I suppose it was a camera. I don't really know. I'd finished hoovering my carpet and I was doing the skirting and doorframe. They do collect the dust if you're not thorough. It was on the lintel. It made such a dreadful racket I thought my old Electrolux had had it. But it kept on working as though nothing had happened ..."

Sherlock ignored his landlady's reminiscences about her vacuum cleaner for the moment, moving to examine the front door. He couldn't venture into the hall without being observed by the camera over the main entrance. A quick check of everywhere within arm's reach of the front door revealed no further devices. The Intruder had obviously tried to bug the flat but had been thwarted by Mrs Hudson's need to deep clean her carpet. If they'd tried to enter footprints would have been obvious in the odorous powder she sprinkled so liberally.

"Your vacuum Mrs Hudson, have you emptied it?"

"Of course. The bag was full. I changed it for a new one …"

"Show me. Please. The vacuum and the bag."

The old upright vacuum cleaner was examined thoroughly before Sherlock was satisfied it had not been tampered with. He was worried the intruder had bugged the appliance as it sat in the hall, having been prevented from entering Flat A itself.

Grabbing a polythene rubbish sack from the roll in Mrs Hudson's cupboard, Sherlock split it open and laid it in the bathtub, having asked the still worried landlady to retrieve the dust bag containing the camera. Returning to the kitchen to purloin the rubber washing up gloves by the sink, Sherlock returned to the bathroom where he carefully placed the bag on the sack. Then he turned on the basin taps. An old ruse but hopefully enough to prevent them being overheard.

Placing a finger to his lips to warn his bemused landlady, he whispered "Mrs Hudson, I need a clean jar. An old jam jar perhaps if you have one. Lined thoroughly with kitchen paper, just in case." He would have preferred to wrap the whole mess back up as it was, but anyone leaving 221B with a rubbish sack was bound to arouse suspicion. He'd need to extract the device and arrange an innocuous method of getting it into Mycroft's possession.

Returning to the bathroom with the prepared jar, the elderly lady fretted as her tenant produced a penknife from his pocket and cut the corner from the plastic sack creating a pouch. Next he began to slice open the bag with the precision he normally reserved for his dissections.

"Be careful Sherlock, I just cleaned in here. That dust gets everywhere."

"Don't worry Martha. I'll clean up any mess. I just need whatever it was you sucked off the door frame."

The lady, already calmed by Sherlock's rare use of her first name, giggled quietly behind her hand at Sherlock's innuendo, causing the man himself to twitch a smile, his focus never straying from the bag before him. With great care, his gloved hands carefully sifted through the dust and debris in the bag before lighting upon the camera. Unsure whether the device had survived its journey through the bowels of Mrs Hudson's old Electrolux he enclosed as much of the enveloping debris as he could between gloved palms. He carefully wrapped the handful in the black plastic pouch, then transferred the package into the open jam jar, shoving a couple of squares of loo roll on top just to make sure before screwing the lid of the jar back on. He hoped the view before and after the hoover bag were similar enough to fool whoever was watching.

Leaving the jar on the bathroom sink, he began to tidy up, careful to prevent dust from billowing.

"I think a cup of tea is called for, then a quick call to Mycroft. If you'd be so kind Mrs Hudson?"

Five minutes later Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, newly filled rubbish sack in hand. Opening the back door, he deposited the sack into the bin before returning to wash and dry his hands. A freshly made pot of tea sat on the kitchen table whilst the last of the latest batch of biscuits were placed onto cooling racks by the annoyed lady. Judging by the slightly over golden colour of the latest batch, he'd distracted the poor woman for too long resulting in an almost ruined batch of oat, apricot and raisin cookies.

"Now young man, having worried me half to death you will sit down and explain what all this is about. I assume the camera or whatever it was over the door wasn't from Mycroft."

"No. Someone broke in after you'd gone to Mrs Turner's. Don't worry. You'd have seen footprints in your carpet cleaner if they'd got into your flat. They could only reach above the door and you vacuumed that up almost straight away. Flat C is secure, although I'll be unpacking that parcel in the hall and disposing of all packaging, just to be on the safe side. They've placed a camera over the front door with views of most of the hall, so no waltzing up and down in your negligee in the middle of the night."

As hoped that got a giggle and a gentle slap to the back of his hand, which turned into a fond clasp between two old and devoted friends. "Oh, you naughty boy. As if I would."

"I'll call Mycroft about the jar in your bathroom. It's safe enough there for now. Perhaps you could wrap up a few of these overdone biscuits for him. My apologies, by the way. Mycroft will no doubt enjoy them anyway, and it's a good excuse for him to come over without alerting our watchers, especially if I'm safely upstairs and have no visible contact with him."

As Mrs Hudson poured the tea, Sherlock called his brother. With the camera above the front door and in Mrs Hudson's it seemed their adversary was something of a voyeur. They would not know whether they were also being listened to until he'd checked their own flat and Mycroft's people had looked at the device.

"No Mycroft, I haven't swept our flat. I haven't been inside yet. I thought it was more important to check the communal areas and Mrs Hudson's before worrying about myself, quite correctly I might add as you'll now have a toy for your minions to analyse."

"Please stop calling them minions Sherlock. They're highly trained operatives."

"Yes, yes. Perhaps you could get your 'highly trained operatives' to determine whether there is any signal coming from the building. The device seems to be battery powered with a small aerial so I'm assuming it's some sort of wifi device. It can't have much range and the risk of interference from other signals in the area is significant … "

"I agree. They are either monitoring from close by or have a relay of some sort within 221B. Without a power source these types of devices typically have a relatively short lifespan. We'll have to investigate Mrs Hudson's fortuitous discovery to be certain. In the meantime, warn your partners and assume the worst until we can confirm."

Realising he had not eaten since breakfast, Sherlock devoured two of Mrs Hudson's excellent cookies (The first was from the overdone batch as penance for having contributed to their sorry state, leaving the rest for Mycroft to enjoy). He then called John, arranging to meet at Angelo's straight from work to discuss how they would proceed.

Once Mary had been apprised of the situation and arrangements made with Angelo to ensure privacy, Sherlock braced himself to return to their flat. He had one hour and twenty seven minutes to locate, as discreetly as possible, the devices that had taken thirteen minutes to install. He could only hope their target had not decided to take the foolhardy but direct route of eliminating the man interfering with business without first finding out what he knew.

If he survived the next one hour and twenty seven minutes, he knew the chance of their strategy's success became considerably greater.

If he survived the next one hour and twenty seven minutes.

* * *

**herberts = 1950's/60's British slang for men or boys especially displaying ridiculous behaviour, e.g. stop being a silly herbert.**

**Skirting = skirting board. A wooden board running along the base of an interior wall usually to hide the bottom of the wall and the edge of the carpet.**

**DEFRA = Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. Part of the British Government**

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**I can also be found on tumblr as awomaninvisible**


	20. Sherlock's marvellous Mind Palace

**In this chapter I'm going to write a paragraph of 'stream of consciousness' as information is processed in Sherlock's head. This will be in an unusual format as facts, instructions, fragments of past conversations, and a current conversation between John and Mary merge together.**

**Known facts from his mind will be italicised**

**Instructions to himself in bold**

**Fragments of past conversations are underlined without quotes**

**Fragments of the current conversation in normal quotes, but not in a separate paragraph for each speaker.**

**This is from Sherlock's point of view and is basically a conversation he is having with himself. Forgive me if it looks a bit weird.**

* * *

He had survived.

There were no nasty surprises with cupboards in the kitchen untouched, so no need to be careful with the sugar. He twitched a wry smile as thoughts of tampered sugar roused memories of John and Baskerville. Why had he ever thought drugging John was a good idea? It was a stupid move, although it helped solve the case, leading to the realisation that the hallucinogen was gaseous rather than solid. And John had clung to him that night, much against the distressed man's own better judgement. He was so angry at Sherlock for using him as a guinea pig, but that had not stopped him from curling up in the guilt-ridden man's arms and holding tightly as dreams of war and hounds fought in his subconscious.

The flat had been bugged, but in a rather amateurish way. The bedrooms and bathroom had not been entered. The doors had been opened, but then closed again. The intruder was either uninterested in their personal space or was under orders to ignore them. Interesting. Why was that interesting?

A camera had been positioned to monitor entry to the flat. Sherlock had missed it when he first climbed the stairs because he didn't know what he was looking for. Now he knew it was easy to spot the camera located in the stair well with views of the doors leading to the kitchen and the living room.

Inside the flat, each of the communal rooms had several sound only devices. The rarely used landline telephone had also been bugged. The good news was that Sherlock could stop worrying about being observed once inside the flat. It was clear that their adversary had taken the bait. Whoever was running the trafficking ring needed to know who Sherlock was talking to and what was being said. Cameras were bigger and harder to hide than sound only bugs, especially if their intruder was not particularly experienced at installing surveillance devices.

Sherlock was beginning to build a picture of the organisation they were up against, but there was still insufficient data. He focussed his mind on ensuring he had located every listening device in their flat, leaving the snippets of accumulated intelligence to percolate through his Mind Palace, collating, mingling and compiling in the background. He knew from long experience that, soon enough, the disparate fragments would coalesce into a coherent picture. Until then there was no point in worrying at them.

He took a few minutes to ensure their laptops were still secure. Mary took hers to work with her. Sherlock's had been moved from where he'd left it on the kitchen table that morning. He felt certain his complicated password would have prevented access. It was the work of a few minutes to confirm his laptop was still secure. John's laptop wasn't visible in its usual places; John's armchair, the dining table, the coffee table or his and Mary's bedroom. It was possible he had taken it to work with him as he was sometimes wont to do. Having satisfied himself he had thoroughly scoured the flat for devices, Sherlock checked his phone. He had a little over thirty minutes to keep his date at Angelo's.

Entering the bathroom, he washed his hands to remove the dust accumulated from rummaging in the nooks and crannies of his home. Collecting his phone he put on his coat and scarf before leaving the flat.

Pausing for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes drawn down the hall towards Flat C and the large cardboard box waiting near the door. He had time to ensure the package posed no immediate threat and that Flat C had not been breached. A quick glance at the blank wall opposite the door to the flat showed the intruder had been smart enough to avoid trying to install a camera with no hope of disguising it.

A cursory inspection of the 80cm by 60cm box revealed the usual shipping labels from KDL couriers. The package was addressed to Mr S Holmes, 221B Baker Street. It was marked fragile, this was up, and clearly stated it contained glass. Also located on the top of the box was the address label of one of the more well-known suppliers of scientific glassware. Not one he used himself, and this was certainly not an order he had placed. He didn't have time now to investigate the consignment, but the size and weight left him confident that it was what it claimed. Unpacking it could wait until the following day when he could carefully and thoroughly inspect its contents.

When Mrs Hudson answered his knock on her door he informed his landlady he was going out for dinner with John and Mary. Seeing she was still shaken by her earlier experience, he spent a moment to attempt to soothe her rattled nerves.

"Don't worry Mrs Hudson. Everything is fine. Did Mycroft collect his cookies and that jar of jam you promised him?" When she nodded to the affirmative, he continued. "My brother has developed an extreme fondness for your baking. You spoil him, you know. He really doesn't deserve it. Regarding the delivery, I've left it where it is. I don't want to move it in case I break whatever's in there so, if you're happy, I'll unpack it tomorrow. Now, I must be off or I'll be late. We'll be back in a few hours. Go in, put your feet up, and relax. After everything you've done today you deserve a carefree evening."

Mrs Hudson smiled up at her old friend before resting her head on his chest as he gently embraced her. "You're right Sherlock. I'll make myself a hot chocolate and watch one of my old musicals. It's been a long day and I'm not as young as I was."

"Quite right. I'll make sure we lock up when we get back so you don't have to worry about it. Goodnight Mrs Hudson."

"Goodnight dear, and give my love to John and Mary."

Sherlock waited for her to close her front door, the Yale lock clicking into place, before he moved to the front door. He had grabbed his gloves on the way out of the flat, but not yet put them on. As he stepped through the front door he allowed his finger to stray over the latch, feeling the tacky trace of adhesive tape. Someone had prevented the door from latching when Mrs Hudson left for Mrs Turner's, allowing the intruder unencumbered access. With the camera above the front door it was not possible to check Mrs Hudson's lock for signs of tampering, but he was in no doubt he would find evidence there.

Pulling on his gloves and turning up his collar, he strode purposefully towards Angelo's, and his two loves.

-0-0-0-

Arriving at Angelo's, Sherlock was delighted to find Mary already installed at a quiet table near the back of the restaurant. Not their usual table, but suitable for tonight's purposes. A candle burned cheerfully in the middle of the table beside a jug of iced water and an open bottle of red wine. Mary was reading the menu whilst sipping her wine, but set both down, rising happily to greet the taller of her partners. A hug and kisses of welcome completed the pleasantries before a waiter removed Sherlock's coat and scarf to the coat rack out back. Laying his phone on the table beside his place setting, Sherlock gave Mary a reassuring smile. At that moment John arrived with cheerful greetings for both his wife, and his partner. The waiter brought John's menu and removed his coat, leaving all three sitting happily together sipping wine and catching up on their respective days.

Once their orders had been placed and they were assured a few minutes of seclusion Sherlock gave a review of the day's events at Baker Street. John confirmed that he had, indeed, taken his laptop with him that day. It was now in his briefcase which rested against the table leg. Sherlock updated them on the various devices, where it was safe to do what, and that he had apprised Mycroft of the extent of the infiltration.

Their main courses arrived. John and Mary chatted through what they knew, happily batting the conversation to and fro between them. Sherlock listened with half an ear, simply pleased to be part of this little family as he slowly but surely cleared his plate. Strange though it seemed Sherlock found himself in an unusual position. For the first time in his adult life he felt ... content. In a world where he had always been ridiculed as the outsider, he now found a sense of belonging he had never known before, with two people who cherished him, a family who accepted and adored him, and friends who protected him. For a man who had thought to spend his life alone and had sought to lessen the sting of rejection by keeping others at a distance, it was strange but comforting to now find himself in the middle of a loving extended family. A family he would give everything to protect.

"Did you hear me Sherlock?" Mary's voice cut into his reverie. "I was just asking. The cameras are only in the hall and on the landing. We've got listening devices throughout the living room and kitchen, whilst the bedrooms and bathroom are clear. Is that right?"

"Yes. They definitely didn't enter the bedrooms and there was no evidence of them in the bathroom. Also, I'm certain they did not touch the cupboards or fridge in the kitchen. You may have noticed I've been keeping a particularly ripe cheese in the fridge." John snorted a laugh, whilst Mary merely shrugged as though stinky cheese was typical Sherlockian behaviour. "I would have detected the odour if our visitor had opened the door. Don't worry, I'll dispose of it tomorrow. I'll take it down to my lab. There's an interesting mould experiment I want to run."

"Oh Sherlock, please don't ever change." John's smile was brilliant, and reached out a warm hand covered his own in loving acceptance.

Sherlock smiled back. "Whilst change is inevitable, I believe, in the essentials, my attributes are fixed".

Mary giggled, her cheeks a little flushed from wine and the warmth of the restaurant. "Well I think your essentials are just perfect. Whether you're chasing criminals across London or keeping bees when we move to the country …"

John and Mary's banter dropped away as Sherlock sank into his Mind Palace. Something about moving. Something had been said. Not by Mary. By Mrs Hudson.

Mrs Turner's married ones have moved-unable to locate how the victims are transported within the UK – job offer in Leeds -They are either monitoring from close by \- "Thank heavens they're only listening" – _411_ – or a relay of some sort \- moved in last week\- "I hope this is over soon so we can go this time" - **irrelevant** \- _code_ \- meaning to the gang \- "What's the date?" - "I want to see the children" – **miss them** \- **focus** \- so lucky to find new tenants so quickly \- four one one\- "Did Sherlock just say four one one?" - Did you know you say that out loud? \- the number could be a coincidence \- **the universe is rarely so lazy** \- haven't been able to decipher it \- confusing \- **yes** \- I understand you have very little intelligence about the organisation\- "don't American's dial that for information?"- _information_ \- **decipher it** \- "our nine nine nine is their nine one one" - _no power source_ \- "confusing nine one one with the eleventh of September" – "why they say nine eleven"- **month then day** \- "bases of operation overseas" - _part of the account holder's identity code_ \- it's a date \- "Did he say a date?" - "he's not really listening" - "lost in his head" - "fourth of November" - unable to locate how the victims are transported either within the UK or overseas\- "American's have it the other way round" - "eleventh of April" - why they say nine eleven – **why?** \- _411 is a recurring code_ \- for information \- I told him he was lucky he caught me \- _someone prevented the door from latching with tape_ \- he carried the box all the way to the flat – **not one one** \- so charming \- unable to locate how the victims are transported either within the UK or overseas\- said I was just going to pop out to Mrs Turner's next door \- _KDL couriers_ – **eleven **\- _code_ \- meaning to the gang – **find the** **meaning** \- _Kelvin Distribution and Logistics_ – new tenants - such a lovely couple \- **irrelevant** \- she's in communications and he's in exports \- locations mostly across the Capital \- _number substitution code_ \- **decipher it** \- **DAA** \- **wrong** \- _in America it's four eleve_n - **four D** \- _number substitution code_ \- **eleven K** \- **four eleven is DK **\- the courier was so helpful \- _someone used tape to stop the door latching_ \- _KDL couriers_ \- I have pleasure in introducing Douglas Kelvin, Chairman of KDL \- _Kelvin Distribution and Logistics_ \- bases of operation overseas\- what is logistics? \- confusing \- **no** \- unable to locate how the victims are transported either within the UK or overseas \- **YES**

-0-0-0-

Mycroft Holmes had very little sleep that night, nor for several nights after. The cause of his enforced insomnia, a text from Sherlock received at 7:23pm.

_'KDL couriers, especially the Chairman/owner. International logistics. Very clever. Literally flying under the radar. 411 = four eleven = DK. And our eves-droppers are Mrs Turner's new tenants in 219. We'll play along for now but keep an eye on them. You're welcome.'_

Within ninety minutes Anthea handed Mycroft a file containing almost all there was to know about Douglas Kelvin, founder and Chairman of Kelvin Distribution and Logistics Limited. Another file contained similar levels of information about his younger brother, Stuart Kelvin, CEO of KDL. A third file contained details of the business itself; its finances, its subsidiaries, its trading partners, and most interestingly, its bases of operations worldwide including an already intriguing preliminary list of the local customs agents and officials in their "employ".

MI6 had been alerted. Part of their role, to rummage through the online activities of the Kelvin brothers, routing out every dirty little secret the brothers had tried to hide.

Mycroft leant back in his arm chair before the freshly stoked fire in his office in the Diogenes Club. The comfort and security of that little corner of London saw him spending more time there than in his official Whitehall office or his tasteful but charmless house in Belgravia.

Tonight he would adjourn to his comfortable apartment adjacent to this office, and rest peacefully for a few hours, allowing the contents of his mind to re-arrange, clearing room in anticipation of the abundance of information currently being compiled and confirmed by specialists across the UK. Mycroft had, for the past two decades, used the Diogenes Club as the format around which he arranged the contents of his mind. In his youth he had used the much loved and oft visited Arundel Castle to manage his knowledge and the information he accumulated. The solid walls and permanence of the building appealed to his pre-teen sensibilities. When, five years later, his younger brother struggled with the overwhelming quantities of data he almost constantly absorbed, causing migraines, nightmares, and screaming temper tantrums, it was Mycroft who taught him the method of mind management in the hope the youngster would find some stability and peace. Sherlock's preference for a Palace struck Mycroft as a strangely romantic choice for a self-professed sociopath.

He anticipated being awoken by one of Anthea's assistants in the early hours of the morning. Despite Sherlock's jibes, he was not a heartless man, acknowledging that his erstwhile assistant and confidante needed her rest to maintain peak efficiency. Once proof of KDL's involvement was confirmed, the operation would quickly become global, with MI6 co-ordinating international efforts.

But for now, in this moment, Mycroft could relax and appreciate the feeling of pride at his younger brother's achievement.

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**I hope that 'stream of consciousness' made sense.**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are always appreciated. Have your say on my ramblings. It makes writing more fun.**


	21. Finding Lindy

**Wishing my readers a fabulous 2015**

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**I know almost nothing about skull injuries. Part of the scenario is based on an episode of CSI. I've no idea if it's accurate, but it sounded fun.**

**Trigger warning: mention of attempted rape, swearing**

* * *

DI Noor Panesar had endured a hectic Monday morning. DCI Lestrade's weekly team meeting had been first thing so she'd had to leave their nanny, Cecile, to get the kids ready for school as she dashed out the door, already behind schedule. Luckily the traffic was in her favour and she made it to New Scotland Yard with enough time to pick up a coffee and Danish.

The meeting itself had overrun by nearly forty minutes due to a combination of discussions about the staff appraisals that were due, and a particularly long-winded and vociferous moan by DI Wilkins, new to Lestrade's team and uncomfortable with the idea of "amateur busy bodies masquerading as police consultants and mucking up his crime scene." Once he'd finally shut up his whining, it hadn't taken much for the six other DI's in the room to set him straight about Holmes and Watson. Panesar noticed that Lestrade had been gearing up to deal with the man at the start, but before he could open his mouth, Dimmock had waded in, telling Wilkins he was an idiot and how he should appreciate one of the best resources the Met had, especially considering his own inauspicious clean-up rate. Lestrade had sat back and smiled, his hands behind his head as he watched his DI's take up a fight that he had fought on his own for so many years. Panesar had helped of course, highlighting how useful he'd been on her first major case at the Met. Wilkins had then compounded his crimes by sneering a vaguely sexist and racist comment at her, which had ended with Lestrade out of his seat, his eyes flashing, his voice low and trembling with suppressed anger, and Wilkins on reprimand. It looked like Lestrade would have a vacancy for a new DI on his team soon.

Panesar had returned to her office with an air of smug satisfaction. Despite the over-run and how it had eaten into her mental schedule for her morning, she was quietly pleased that the team had pulled together. She felt like she was exactly where she ought to be, with people she could trust. She'd really fallen on her feet getting DCI Lestrade as her senior officer.

Returning to her office, she finished off the paperwork from her last case, before setting to on the admin she had to complete. Staff appraisals. Never a favourite, but a necessary evil. With luck she'd have them finished by mid-afternoon and be able to knock off a bit early. Having left home so early, it would be nice to spend some time with Piaar and Jai, her nine year old daughter and six year old son. They were settling in well to their new life in London, seeming to be making friends at their new school, although it never hurt to make sure all was going as well as they said. Luckily, when Adarshpal had relocated to the Capital, Cecile had been happy to move from Manchester to London with them. She'd been with them since Piaar was a year old, and Noor needed to return to work.

Noor was making good progress through her paperwork. She only had two more appraisals to complete before she was done. A timid knock at her door distracted her briefly.

"Come in."

A young, uniformed constable came smartly to attention before her desk, staring fixedly at the wall behind her head. The poor lad couldn't be long out of the Police College at Hendon.

"Constable?"

"Ma'am." The young lad gulped nervously. He was a shade under six feet tall, skinny, still suffered from mild acne, and his short, ginger curls obviously fought a daily battle with his cap.

Noor suppressed the urge to giggle. Keeping her gaze on the paperwork on her desk, she bit out an intimidating "Well? I haven't got all day."

The lad visibly wilted. "Ma'am. I probably should go. Sorry to have wasted your time."

Noor looked up. The boy was obviously distressed. "Stop. Something's bothering you enough to come and see me, Constable …?"

"Cooper, Ma'am."

"Constable Cooper. I can spare you five minutes. Sit on the sofa and tell me what's bothering you."

The constable looked fearfully at the sofa. He twitched, undecided whether to flee, sit, or stay fixedly at attention. In the end a gentle smile from Noor and a guiding hand on his shoulder persuaded him to sit, his hands wringing where they hung between his knees.

"Alright Constable, take a deep breath then tell me what's got you so bothered."

Once the lad decided to speak it was as if a dam had broken. Words came out in a pleading gush, falling over each other in a torrent of confusion and fear.

"It's my sister. We live in Barnet. Our Dad died when I was eleven, and Mum re-married two years ago. He's called Phil. I don't like him much. Bit of a tosser if you ask me. Oh, sorry Ma'am." Noor held up her hand to indicate she wasn't offended and to encourage the young man to continue. "Lindy, my kid sister's just started college, otherwise she'd have gone with Mum to Aberystwyth. Grandda's ill you see. Alzheimer's, and Nanna's struggling so Mum went up six, no seven weeks ago to help out. Lindy stayed home. I'm sharing a flat with a couple of other constables in Stoke Newington, but I go home most weekends, if I'm not on duty. Anyway, I went home on Sunday for lunch, like I'd arrange with Lindy. 'Cept she wasn't there. Phil said she'd left. Run off with some boyfriend she'd met at college. But that's not right. I'd spoken to Lindy. She'd not mentioned a boyfriend, and she isn't the type to run off. And like I said, we'd arranged Sunday lunch. She's just not the type to disappear like that. We're close, see. 'Specially since Dad died. She's three years younger than me, just turned seventeen, and she tells me everything. Well, obviously not everything everything, but all the important stuff. And when it comes to fellas, she always asks my opinion. Doesn't want to make a mistake she says. She certainly wouldn't run off with someone without my having met him. It's just not how Lindy is. Careful. Doesn't take risks. She knows the dangers you see. Dad was knifed helping a girl being raped in an alley. A hero the papers said. But she knows not to put herself in danger, take unnecessary risks. So you see Ma'am. I … I need your help. I tried telling my Sarge but he just said it was typical of girls of today, and it may be, but it isn't for Lindy. Not without telling me. Not without a call. And I can't get hold of her mobile, just her voicemail. I don't want to call Mum and worry her, but I spoke to Nanna and she sent her love to Lindy, like she hasn't seen her in a while, so she isn't there. And Ma'am, something's wrong an' I don't know what to do."

Noor looked into a pair of pleading, terrified, green eyes.

Her own gut was telling her that something was most decidedly wrong.

She stood up, walked to her desk and grabbed a notepad and pen. She placed them on the coffee table before the young man.

"You know the drill. Write down everything starting with your home address, contact numbers, names, dates and all salient facts." The young boy grabbed the offered stationery, threw her a quick look of gratitude, then began writing. Noor opened her office door. "Sergeant Donovan, with me. Book out a car and put a team on alert. It may be nothing, but I want to be prepared. I need to run it past the DCI, but we're going to Barnet, a seventeen year old female missing since Saturday."

Sally stood from her own desk. "Runaway Ma'am?"

"Possible, but unlikely. Constable Cooper's little sister seems to have disappeared without contacting her family."

A look of understanding passed between Inspector and Sergeant. Neither were expecting a good outcome, unless they were very, very lucky. "And Sergeant, call Holmes. I think we'll need him on this one."

-0-0-0-

"Really Sally, a missing teenage girl. That's barely a two."

"Normally yeah, but in this case it's the younger sister of one of our PCs. They're close and she'd arranged to do Sunday lunch. He turns up and she's not there. No contact since Friday. Step-dad says she ran off with some bloke on Saturday, but her brother doesn't believe it. Says it's totally out of character."

"Is the mother in the picture?"

"Normally, yeah. But's she's been in Wales for the last seven weeks caring for her sick Dad. They've not heard from the girl either. She didn't go with her Mum because she was starting sixth form college. I've spoken to the College Secretary and her Head Teacher. There's no indication of problems there. She was happy and her work was all good."

"So, foul play."

"Yep. The DI agrees. Heard the lad's story, called me right away, and had me put the full support team including Forensics on standby. She's already cleared it with the DCI and Barnet nick for us to have a look as it's one of our own. We're heading out now. Are you in?"

"Hmm. I'll take it. Text me the address. We'll meet you there."

-0-0-0-

Noor didn't want to do it, but without a warrant she needed permission to enter the property. PC Cooper could not give her that, so she was forced to call his mother in Wales. She waited until she was parked outside the property, knowing the woman would immediately call her husband to find out what was going on. This way, as soon as she had permission she could go in, giving the occupants no time.

"Mrs Patterson. My name is Detective Inspector Panesar. Your son is part of my team at Scotland Yard." A lie, but, Noor felt, a necessary one. "Your son has expressed some concerns about the whereabouts of your daughter. He has been unable to get a satisfactory explanation from your husband, and has asked me to investigate. I need your permission to enter your home so I can find out where you daughter is. Do you agree?"

"What do you mean Lindy's missing? That can't be right. Why's Charlie asked you to look into it? Phil's there. He'll let you in."

"So, to be clear. I have your verbal permission to enter your property to search for evidence of the current whereabouts and condition of your daughter."

"Yes, of course you do. There must be some mistake. Charlie's got it wrong. I'll call Phil and find out what's going on."

"I'd appreciate if you didn't do that Mrs Patterson. We're at your home now. I'll speak to your husband and ask him to call you. Is that acceptable."

The poor woman was becoming tearful. "Yes. Alright. Get Phil to call me. Charlie's got confused. Lindy's fine, I'm sure. Please, get Phil to call me. Oh God, Lindy. Please, find Lindy."

As Noor wound up the call, Sherlock and John arrived. Sally and Noor joined them on the pavement and walked to the front door of the brick-built semi-detached. It was one of many similar suburbs of London, build in the 1930's when London really began to sprawl. Streets of identical homes, with gardens now converted to car-parking in front and a small garden out the back.

Noor marched up to the double glazed front door, finding a button for the doorbell. She pressed it for a second, hearing it ring deep in the house. There was no movement. She pressed the button again, giving it a good two seconds. She indicated to Sally to use the garden gate to get access to the back of the house. Losing patience, she rang the doorbell a third and final time.

Sally poked her head out through the gate. "Ma'am, back door's open."

"Well done Sergeant. Gentlemen, let's go. Have you got gloves?"

Sherlock looked affronted. "Of course."

He stuck his right hand out towards John, who huffed out an exasperated breath before producing several pairs of nitrile gloves from his jacket pocket. He handed a pair to his partner, retained a pair for himself, and pushed the remainder back in his pocket.

Sally already had the back door open. Noor led the way to the stairs. "Hello. Metropolitan Police. Is anyone here?" When she received no answer, she led the way up that stairs onto the small landing.

"Cooper said Lindy's room is at the back on the left."

The room contained a single bed with a geometric print duvet in pastel shades. A chest of three drawers served as the bedside table. A lamp and a radio alarm clock were the only items on display at the bedside. The room in general was incredibly tidy.

Sherlock opened the wardrobe. "Noor, your opinion please."

The DI looked at the contents of the wardrobe, running her fingers over the clothes that still hung there, and surveying the gaps where some of the contents had been removed. Lindy seemed as precise with her clothes as with everything else. Her wardrobe was neatly ordered with blouses beside jumpers, skirts next to trousers, less commonly worn clothes at the far end and her favourite clothes easily accessible. Her shoes were similarly arranged, standing in ordered pairs on the floor of her wardrobe.

Noor hummed to herself, then moved over to a chest of drawers, checking the contents.

"You're right Sherlock. I don't think she packed."

John looked between the two detectives. "What's missing?"

"The wrong clothes. All lacy underwear and party outfits, but no normal clothes. Her jeans and t-shirts seem to still be here. Also, her makeup bag is on the dressing table. It's like someone's packed for a dirty weekend and nothing else. If she'd run off with someone she'd have packed jeans, socks, trainers, you know, street clothes, not just party wear."

Sally had been searching the drawers in her bedside table. She turned, holding a bubble pack aloft. "She'd also have packed her contraception. They were tucked under her alarm clock and the rest hidden in a tampon box; something a girl wouldn't normally keep next to her bed unless she needed to hide something from prying eyes. Cooper said she was careful. She'd never have left her contraceptives behind. She doesn't sound the type to rely solely on condoms or someone else for her protection. These are the type you take in the morning, and the last pill was taken on Friday. So she was OK on Friday morning, when she took the pill. When did Cooper say he spoke to her?"

"About five o'clock in the evening. She was on her was her way home from College. That's when they arranged Sunday lunch."

"But the Step-dad said she left on Saturday. If she's like most girls, she's have taken the pill as soon as she woke. That's why she hid them under the alarm clock, so they were easy to reach. If she woke here on Saturday morning she'd have taken her pill."

Sherlock smiled. "So Sally, you're saying she was taken on Friday evening. And Noor has identified that she didn't plan on leaving because someone packed clothes for her to cover up her disappearance."

At that point, John re-entered the bedroom. "Sherlock, you need to see the bathroom."

Sherlock carefully entered the small room, Noor and Sally waiting with John by the door. It was unnecessary for John to point out what he had already noticed. Sherlock had probably already spotted everything for himself.

"Hmmm, new shower curtain and a distinct smell of bleach, lots of bleach."

"OK Sherlock, how can you tell it's a new shower curtain? And bleach is pretty common in a bathroom."

"Really Sally, It's obvious. It's a cheap plastic curtain on metal curtain rings. Every time the curtain is pulled back and forth, strain is put on the holes by the rings. They stretch. These aren't stretched at all and there's no build-up of soap scum on the curtain, unlike the deposits around the taps on the bath and basin. Also, the bath mat is missing. What type of suburban household doesn't have a bathmat to put your wet feet on? Everything says most of this bathroom has not been properly cleaned since Mrs Patterson left for Wales, yet the shower curtain has been replaced very recently, the bath has been scrubbed, the bathmat's missing, and there's a strong smell of bleach."

Noor had hoped this wasn't the outcome, but now it was fairly obvious they were looking for a body. "Sergeant, get the team in. Full Forensics, and get uniform to pick up Phil Patterson. He needs to be taken to Barnet nick for questioning. Also, get Traffic to find his car. If he did a body dump, there's probably still evidence. Let's face it, he's not the most competent cleaner."

They made their way back down stairs. "Sergeant, lock the back door and secure all house keys. Also, secure the back gate. We'll meet you out front."

As Noor reached to open the front door, a key scraped in the lock and the door swung open, revealing a startled middle aged man in a cheap suit and mac. The thin blue and white striped carrier bag indicated he was returning from a quick visit to the nearest corner shop.

"Who the fuck are you and what are you doin' in my fuckin' house?"

"Mr Patterson I presume. I'm Detective Inspector Panesar and this is Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. I have your wife's permission to search this house for evidence relating to her missing daughter, Lindy. Now, will you accompany us to Barnet Police station voluntarily or shall I place you under arrest?"

-0-0-0-

Once they'd got him in the interview room, it had taken very little time for Patterson to crack. He'd come home of Friday evening after a few too many beers after work. He was missing his wife, and decided that his step-daughter would make a suitable substitute to scratch his particular itch. He'd caught up with her on the landing where she's tried to fend him off. Having managed to push him away, she'd made a run for the bathroom, but had been unable to lock the door in time. He'd burst into the room, fuelled by alcohol, sexual desire, and rage at being rejected by the teenager. The force of his entry into the tiny room had thrown the girl backwards causing her to crack her head on the side of the original enamelled iron bath.

Panic seized him. He tore down the shower curtain, wrapping the body and bloody bath mat in it, before carrying her to his car. He'd driven to nearby Barnet Gate Wood where he'd dumped her body away from the footpath, covering it with branches and leaves. He'd then come back to clean up. When Charlie arrived expecting Sunday lunch with his sister, Phil had panicked, saying the first thing that came into his head, that she'd run off with a boyfriend. He then packed a bag to back up his story, throwing in her handbag, and disposing of it in a skip. He'd had enough sense to remove the battery from her phone to prevent it being traced before it too went into the skip.

Sherlock and John accompanied Noor and Sally to the dump site. It was Sherlock who spotted the artificial pile of branches. Flies swarmed around, scattering when Sherlock approached. Sherlock began to carefully remove the top branches, careful to avoid disturbing evidence.

Noor approached. "Careful Sherlock. We need to confirm she's there then we'll leave this to Forensics."

Sherlock suddenly froze, then began tearing through the debris with no regard for preservation of evidence.

The DI shouted in anger. "Sherlock. What the hell are you doing?"

At the same time Sherlock yelled, "John, quickly. She's here. Someone call an ambulance. Quickly, help me."

Sally stopped for just a second before she sprang into action, pulling out her phone to call paramedics. Noor ran forward, pulling aside branches to clear the way, whilst yelling at the uniformed officers. "Here, now. She's alive. Move it."

Sherlock cleared the leaves from the girl's head and face. John immediately began assessing the patient. A low moan prompted him to start talking in his wonderfully calming voice. "It's alright Lindy. You're safe. I'm a Doctor. You're doing really well. Just stay still and we'll get you to hospital. Don't worry. You're safe."

-0-0-0-

Sherlock and John lurked around the vending machine in the visitor's room while Lindy underwent emergency surgery. Sherlock rarely had any interest once the case was solved, but this situation was unusual. The girl had survived nearly seventy hours in the open, unconscious, with a major head injury, her only protection from the elements, a flimsy nightie and a plastic shower curtain. The icing on the cake, as far as Sherlock was concerned, was that she'd been saved by flies. The weather had been warm enough that her wound had quickly attracted flies. The eggs began to hatch within a day, the maggots feasting on the dead flesh of the wound preventing infection. She had a depressed skull fracture to the parietal bone with swelling of the brain caused by her impact with the bath. It was unlikely she would regain conciousness any time soon. She was not in the clear yet and a full recovery was doubtful, but she was alive.

The two men returned to the DI and her Sergeant. John handed Noor and Sally the excuse for coffee dispensed by the vending machine, before claiming his own from Sherlock's hand.

"Hello Sherlock. I can't leave you alone for a moment can I."

"Lestrade." The DCI looked proudly at his team.

John turned and grinned. "Hi Greg. What're you doing here?"

"I brought PC Cooper in. He's with the Doctor at the moment getting an update on his sister's condition. He'll be along in a second. DI Panesar. Good job, nicely done."

"Thank you, Sir. It was a team effort. I'm glad we got a good result. It could so easily have gone the other way."

Greg turned to share a look with his former Sergeant. "OK Sally?"

"Yes sir. Good actually, really good. Glad we managed to get a result for Cooper."

"What about the Mother. Has she been updated?"

"We've told her Lindy's been found alive and is in hospital. Dyfed Powys Police are driving her down now. She should be here before morning. We've arranged alternate accommodation for her as the house is still being processed. We haven't told her about her husband yet, only that he's being held for questioning."

"Probably best. Telling someone that your husband thought he'd killed your daughter after his attempted rape went wrong is probably best done face to face."

"Yeah. I'm not looking forward to that conversation."

"What about Cooper? How much are you going to tell him?"

"He'll have to know it all eventually. At the moment, he just needs to know that his step-father thought he'd accidentally killed his sister. Rather than calling an ambulance he panicked and dumped her in the woods, and that by bringing her disappearance to my attention he saved her life."

There was a gasp from the doorway. "Did I really?"

They all turned to look at the Constable, now in jeans, polo shirt and jacket, as he entered the room.

Strangely, it was Sherlock who stepped forwards. "PC Cooper. You did well. Without your intervention in bringing your concerns to DI Panesar's attention, it is doubtful your sister would have survived. Had she spent another night outside, she would certainly have been found too late. She is strong. She fought every step of the way."

"They said she might have brain damage."

"She might, but if anyone can beat the odds, it's your sister. Do not give up on her. She is a remarkable fighter."

"Thank you sir. And thank you for helping the Inspector. I couldn't believe it when DCI Lestrade told me you and Dr Watson were helping the investigation. Thank you for finding my sister. Really, thank you."

"It was our pleasure. Now, come along John. We should be going."

John shrugged. "Bye Noor, Sally. We need a beer Greg. Call me. Nice to have met you Cooper. I'd best get going. He gets into trouble when let loose in a hospital on his own."

* * *

**Danish – Danish pastry, also known as a viennoiserie pastries in some countries.**  
**Ma'am – pronounced marm, not mam, when addressing a superior officer.**  
**Nick – slang for Police Station**  
**PC – abbreviation for Police Constable**  
**Mac – short for mackintosh, a long raincoat**  
**nightie - night shirt**


	22. Interlude

**Events occurring in 221b around Chapter 22, 'Finding Lindy'**

* * *

As promised, Sherlock had gone down first thing the next morning, a Saturday, to examine and unpack the delivery. He'd carefully examined the exterior of the box in case he's missed anything during his rushed examination the previous afternoon. As expected, everything was as he had originally observed. Inside the box he found a printed delivery note from the manufacturers including the message that the shipment was a gift from a grateful client who wished to remain anonymous. The contents were nothing more than basic glassware for laboratory work, flasks, beakers, dishes, tubes, funnels and the like. A cheap and unimaginative gift, but a clever distraction. A means to an end. They needed a package that was large and awkward enough to make it unlikely for Mrs Hudson to want to handle it on her own. She would have had to allow the courier in to manoeuvre the fragile delivery to its resting place next to the door of Flat C. This gave the courier ample time to survey the hall, engage Mrs Hudson in idle chit-chat about her plans for the day, and to tamper with the lock on the front door whilst she was busy signing for the package. Electronic gadgets never being her strong point, especially those that digitised her signature, Sherlock knew the courier would have had ample of time to place tape over the latch to prevent the door locking when Mrs Hudson left for Mrs Turner's.

John padded down the stairs, bare footed and finishing a corner of toast.

"I thought I heard you down here. What are you up to?" Spotting his partner kneeling next to a cardboard box, his interest piqued. "What'av'ya'got there? Anything interesting?"

Sherlock looked up, a box of microscope slides in one hand. Conscious of the camera over the front door recording their every move, Sherlock gave John one of his fake smiles, knowing John would understand and act accordingly. "Just a little thank-you gift from a grateful client. Anonymous unfortunately. Laboratory equipment, which is always useful."

John snorted. "It is at the rate you get through it. Need a hand unpacking?"

"Please. I don't want to carry the box into the lab now I've opened it in case the contents shift and break. We'll unpack the items here and transfer them in individually." A perfectly reasonable explanation for their eves-droppers, Sherlock thought, but John would understand that he did not want suspect packages in their secure room. Anything untoward would stay in the hall and then be disposed of into Mycroft's people's waiting hands.

It took a good ninety minutes to transfer all the glassware into the lab in Flat C. Mary had shouted her goodbyes as she'd dashed down the stairs heading for the supermarket, leaving her boys carefully checking and transferring their fragile cargo. She'd returned after a little less than an hour carrying a couple of carrier bags of weekend essentials to tide them over until their Monday grocery delivery from Sainsbury's. She'd called out her hellos as she clambered up the stairs, not bothering to disturb the boys from their labours. Once everything was transferred through, they'd spent some time sorting and arranging before they tidied the glassware away into cupboards and onto shelves, awaiting Sherlock's next great experiment.

As he was wearing his shoes, Sherlock carried the box out to the bins, where Mycroft's people could collect it without suspicion.

Once they were done, the pair knocked on Mrs Hudson's door to let her know the hall was now clear, before returning to their flat for well-deserved cups of tea. Conversation was a little stilted given that the flat was bugged. It made Sherlock uncomfortable that their ever word, at least in the kitchen and living room, was being transmitted to the flat next door.

It took all of twenty minutes before Sherlock announced "I'm bored."

John looked up from his laptop and Mary from her reading. They looked pointedly at each other, but kept their voices as normal as possible.

John spoke first. "Me too. Let's do something this weekend. Have a bit of fun for a change. What do you fancy?"

Mary considered for a moment. "We could go and look at the display of poppies at the Tower. And I've always fancied doing one of those Duck Tours, in that amphibious bus on the Thames. It finishes at the Florence Nightingale Museum near Lambeth Palace. I've never seen that."

"I've always wanted to visit the Old Operating Theatre Museum and Herb Garret on St Thomas Street, up near London Bridge. I've heard it's fascinating."

"Both of those sound interesting, but they might be best kept for a more dreary weekend. We should take advantage of today's fine weather while we have it." Both Mary and John nodded their agreement. "The Duck Tour sounds, erm, different."

"Don't worry Sherlock. The only time you can't hop off is when it's on the river."

"I think I'd rather walk. We can always grab a cab, and there's the river bus.

Mary sounded excited. "Ooh, I've never seen Greenwich from the river. It must look spectacular. And there's a stop at Tower Bridge. We could hop on at the London Eye, get off at Greenwich, maybe walk up to the Observatory, then take the river bus back to the Tower. How does that sound?"

Sherlock smiled. "Excellent. If you like I'll see if I can arrange for us to visit the museums another time. And, as the weather is supposed to stay fine tomorrow, why don't we get out of town for the day? Perhaps visit Kew Gardens. They have some interesting samples of poisonous plants."

Mary giggled as John rolled his eyes. Sherlock simply shrugged, a slight pout playing around his mouth. "I thought we could take a picnic."

Mary grabbed Sherlock into a delighted hug. "What a fabulous idea. We can pick up some crisps and things on the way home tonight. Now then my lads, shoes on. We're going to Greenwich."

-0-0-0-

John wasn't working on Monday so after morning ablutions, breakfast, and a goodbye kiss with Mary before she left for work, John and Sherlock spent the remainder of the morning in relative silence, drinking tea, reading the paper and toying with the internet. It wasn't uncomfortable, but by late morning John noticed that Sherlock was becoming a little twitchy. It was therefore a relief, and a little surprising, when Sally Donovan called Sherlock's mobile with the offer of a case in Barnet.

"Really Sally, a missing teenage girl. That's barely a two."

John's ears pricked up, as he half listened to the conversation.

"Is the mother in the picture?"

John looked up from his laptop, his attention now fully focused on the detective as the man danced back and forth in his little telephone jig.

"So, foul play."

John closed his laptop and stood.

"Hmm. I'll take it. Text me the address. We'll meet you there."

John headed to the bedroom for his socks and watch, then collected his mobile and wallet, before lacing up his shoes and pulling on his jacket.

"What have we got?"

"Missing teenage girl, sister of a PC. Step-father says she ran off with a boyfriend on Saturday. Brother says that's not possible, that it's totally out of character, and they'd arranged a meal for Sunday."

"We'd best be off then. We don't want to keep the ladies waiting."

-0-0-0-

They returned to the flat a little after seven, their shoes and trousers spattered with mud from the woods. Mary had already placed newspaper by the front door for their shoes. They padded up the stairs in their socks, already stripping off their coats.

"Mary love, we're home. Is the kettle on?"

Mary came out of the kitchen bearing a dustbin bag. "My, what a day you've had. Kettle's on. Strip off those trousers and dump them in the bag. I'll drop them off at the dry cleaners on my way in to work tomorrow. How's the girl?"

John answered as Sherlock headed for the bathroom and a much needed shower. "She's not brilliant. She was still in surgery when we left. If she makes it through the night, she'll have more of a chance. I don't envy Noor having to explain everything to her mother. She was still en route when we left, but the brother was there. Good lad. Saved the girl's life going to Noor like that. She hasn't told him the full story yet. I think she wants to talk to the CPS about charges before sitting down with the family. The bloke's confessed and given a full statement. It just comes down to how the CPS want to play it."

"What a miserable situation." She pointed her index finger at the ceiling and circled it in front of her face as she said "I suppose you can't tell me any details as it's an active investigation."

John nodded in understanding. "No, just generalities, not specifics, as normal. I could murder a cuppa, then I'll dive in the shower, once his nibs has finished. I bet he takes all the hot water again." He shot Mary a cheerful grin, playing at being grumpy with his best friend for the benefit of the bugs. "What's for dinner?"

"I thought I'd do a spaghetti Bolognese."

"Sounds just what we need. I'll come and help out as soon as I've scrubbed up. I'll point Sherlock in your direction as soon as he's out."

Mary leant forward to kiss her husband's cheek. "Thanks sweetheart."

The surveillance in the flat was becoming unbearable. The sooner the case was closed and the bugs removed, the better.


	23. Author's Note

I have not abandoned this story. It has continued in 'Becoming' and 'Ensemble' where the back story of various characters has and will continue to be explored. Some of those back stories contribute to coming chapters in 'Trefoil' so I wanted to get those published first.

This work is part of a series, set in a canon divergent universe where series 3 didn't happen and Mary Morstan is a totally different person (because my story, 'Watersheds', around which these stories are based, was written before series 3 aired). In this universe, our three main characters, Sherlock, John and Mary, identify, in their own ways, as asexual.

The stories so far in the Trefoil series are as follows:

**_Birth_ \- **Why Sherlock and not William? William Sherlock Scott Holmes has issues. He has already lost his beloved big brother Mycroft to boarding school and his new best friend, an odious creep called Charles. Then he lost his Mummy and Daddy to his new, as yet un-named baby brother.** (s/10486100/1/Birth)**

**_Watersheds_ \- **John Watson had encountered many watersheds in his life, not all of them good, not all of them of his choosing. Each time he had to re-invent his life, sometimes on his own, and sometimes with the help of unexpected allies.** (s/9616904/1/Watersheds)**

**_Trefoil_ \- **To his surprise he found himself loved. Not just by one, but by two of the most amazing people he had ever known. With cases to work on, criminals to chase and a new DI to break in, Sherlock found himself to be ... content.** (s/10194990/1/Trefoil)**

**_Becoming_ \- **Missing chapters from the developing asexual relationship between Sherlock, John and Mary. The events that helped shape them into the individuals who, together, became a fabulous whole. **(s/10926138/1/Becoming)**

**_Ensemble_ \- **Background stories, in no particular chronological order, of the wider Holmes-Watson family.** (s/10944616/1/Ensemble)**

* * *

To those of you who have left reviews or follow my stories, I thank you. To those of you who have read these scratchings, I thank you. Your time and contribution is very much appreciated. If you wish to leave reviews or constructive criticism, please do. Your input is always valued and an encouragement to continue.


	24. Meeting The Holmes

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

**References events from 'Becoming' chapter 8 ****(s/10926138/1/Becoming).**

**Trigger warning: mentions of drug use, overdose, and suicide (faked)**

* * *

John walked along Baker Street, a gentle smile on his face as the joyful strains of an unknown violin piece Sherlock had played the previous evening swept through his mind, his stride brisk as he marched in time to the tune; a pleasant surprise after completing a tiring shift. The bright sunshine belied the crisp bite of the November afternoon.

Arriving outside 221B, he noticed the door knocker sat perpendicular on the black paint of the door. Mycroft had visited. Sherlock always left the door knocker slightly to the right, John slightly to the left, a minor niggle to Mycroft's obsession with precision. Mary and Mrs Hudson never touched the knocker. John suspected that Mary was aware of their way of baiting Mycroft, despite it never having been discussed. Mrs Hudson was probably oblivious, but that was perhaps a dangerous assumption to make. Despite her outward display of muddle-headedness, the woman was actually as sharp as a tack.

As his key was about to enter the lock, the front door was thrown open. Mary pulled up abruptly in her rapid exit.

"John, good, your home. I'm going to the supermarket. I can't stand to be up there anymore. The two of them have been hissing and spitting at each other for the past fifteen minutes. They've spoken barely a civil word to each other. The final straw was Sherlock starting to pluck at his violin. I swear to god, if he starts that dreadful screeching I will brain him with it. So I'm going shopping. Is there anything we need?"

John took in all Mary said with an air of quiet resignation. He reached forward, wrapping his wife into a reassuring hug and placing a gentle kiss on her cheek. "It's OK love. I'll deal with it. Um. I'm out of strawberry jam and I think Sherlock took the last of the rice bran and sesame oils. Something about comparing the preservative qualities of different oils on human ears. I know, bizarre, but I'm sure he'll find it useful one day."

"Hmm, I'll forgive him. His experiments always seem unrealistic but they prove surprisingly relevant. I can't really begrudge him if it helps save a life. I'll be back in about thirty minutes. See if you can get Mycroft out of the house and smooth Sherlock's feathers before I get back. I've had a hell of a day and I really don't need more adults behaving like spoilt brats."

John kissed his wife again. "OK, I'll see what I can do. See you in a bit love."

Walking slowly up the stairs he could hear the screech of a bow over violin strings.

Mycroft's sneering tones addressed his brother with disdain. "Really Sherlock? This again? Will you ever grow up?"

"Will you ever stop interfering in my life?"

"It's not me. It's Mummy. She wants to see you. Your absence has been noticed and remarked upon with increasing distress for the last ten months. Even Daddy has now decided that your presence is not only preferred but essential."

"I am not going."

"Perhaps you should ask John's opinion. After all, the invitation has been extended to John and Mary too. What do you think John? Can you persuade your … partner to introduce you to his parents?"

John strolled into the room, his eyes flicking between the two brothers. Sherlock sprawled in his chair, his violin now hugged to his chest whilst Mycroft relaxed in John's armchair with his usual air of studied nonchalance, his umbrella resting against the right arm, always within easy reach even in a non-threatening situation. Sherlock exuded angry tension, way above his normal levels of annoyance when dealing with Mycroft.

"Hello Mycroft. I see you've driven Mary from the house. What do you want this time?"

"As I was explaining to the child, Mummy and Daddy have invited you, all three of you, for the weekend. They are naturally concerned for their son's wellbeing, having not seen him since January, and they would be delighted to finally meet the two people who share his home. I have, of course, given them limited information …"

Sherlock abruptly pulled his feet to him and gave a triumphant "HA!"

"Yes Sherlock. I admit to imparting salient facts about your life, when asked by the parents you refuse to see. If you went yourself, or even phoned occasionally I would not need to perform this onerous task on your behalf."

"And spoil all your fun tittle tattling to Mummy about the terrible things I've got up to. Anyway, I don't phone, I text."

Mycroft grimaced then made a move to stand. He was not as graceful or sinuous as Sherlock, but his movements bore a certain similarity to his younger brother. "Thank you for your time John. The invitation is for this weekend. I'll provide a chauffeured car. Mummy and Daddy really would be charmed to finally meet you both. Now, my time is precious. If you permit, I will take my leave. No, no. Stay where you are John. I am quite capable of showing myself out."

Sherlock watched intently until he was quite sure Mycroft had left the building before leaping to his feet with an exasperated huff, carefully setting down his violin and disappearing into his bedroom, his door slamming shut behind him.

John simply stood there staring at the now closed door in confusion. Suddenly the bedroom door opened very slowly and quietly, Sherlock's mop of unruly curls appearing above what John referred to as his 'Idiot Face', most frequently used to members of the Met who thought they could read a crime scene better than him. He inclined his head before silently closing the door again.

It took John a second to realise his partner's meaning. Sherlock wanted a private conversation away from the listening devices peppering the kitchen and living room. His angry flounce to the bedroom was part of the act. John was now expected to follow.

John grinned, but ensured his voice held the right level of annoyance. "Sherlock. Sherlock." Stomp towards the bedroom. Knock tersely on the bedroom door. Throw it open. "Care to explain what just happened and what Mycroft was on about?" Slam door behind him having entered the bedroom.

Sherlock was sat on the bed, his back against the headboard and his feet tucked under his buttocks, knees hugged tightly to his chest.

John was startled at how upset Sherlock looked. "Hey, love. Want to tell me what's wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head. His behaviour had matured over time, especially since his enforced absence. He rarely displayed the petulant child who had made frequent visits when they first began living together. Sherlock could still sulk for England, but generally he was as much of an adult as John, which, John mused, was perhaps not saying much. Still, this was the behaviour of an upset child, hurting but unwilling to speak, curled in on himself as he tried but failed to find a way out of his predicament.

"It's obviously about Mummy and Daddy. Are you worried about introducing Mary and me to them? I presume Mycroft has told them about our relationship. Are you worried about their reaction?"

"No. Mycroft hasn't told them. Obviously they know we're living here, but not that we're married. They'll be fine with it. They'll probably be relieved if anything. Their little boy all grown up."

John did not miss the heavy sarcasm that dripped off the last comment. "Ah, so it's that they treat you like a child. I have to say, I did wonder. There's not many grown men who call their parents Mummy and Daddy like you and Mycroft."

"Linley doesn't. He hasn't since he was ten. Came home from boarding school after Lent Half and started calling them Ma and Pa."

"And they didn't object."

"No, not at all. In fact they started to treat Linley differently to Mycroft and myself. When he announced he wanted to be an actor they supported him throughout."

"So why didn't you call them something other than Mummy and Daddy?"

"I don't know. I took my lead from Mycroft. He was the oldest and that's what he always called them. Linley was different from us anyway. He's always been emotionally stable, disgustingly gregarious even. Unlike Mycroft who keeps his emotions tightly locked away. And of course I'm the sociopath so I have no emotions at all."

"That's bullshit Sherlock and you know it. You're no more a sociopath than I am. We both know that you get too easily overwhelmed with that massive, brilliant brain of yours. So don't start playing the broken genius card, 'cos you know it doesn't work. Not with me, or with Mary either." John climbed onto the bed and snuggled, shoulder to shoulder with his tormented genius. "So wanna tell me about it?"

"Not much to tell that you don't already know. They've always treated me like a broken child. Mummy calls me her little boy, Daddy pats me on the head. And I can't help myself. I pander to it, and hate myself for doing so. It's always been the same between Mycroft and I. Vying for our parent's attention by simpering around them like children. Linley thinks it's hilarious. Mycroft and I sniping and bickering while he marches in, hugs them both and throws himself on the sofa to watch it all play out. In the end I decided I hated it too much. A grown man unable to do anything but revert to the most puerile behaviour. I withdrew and refused to see them. Mycroft keeps trying of course, and delights in gossiping to them about my misdeeds. It's pathetic really, how much he craves our parent's attention."

"Why do you behave like that then, if you hate it so much?"

"I don't know. I'm not one for soul-searching and introspection as you know, but on this I'd be almost tempted. I had such a terrible time growing up, unable to process the data constantly flowing into my mind. My parents couldn't help me. In the end it was Mycroft who taught me how to manage. He helped me build my first Mind Palace. Of course my parents were delighted, especially when the screaming fits stopped, so Mycroft became the person they relied on to manage me. Unfortunately, when Mycroft began training for his future career, his guidance took a darker turn."

"Let me guess. 'Alone is what protects me', 'love is a chemical defect found on the losing side', and the biggest bullshit of all 'I don't have friends'. What a crock of shit that was. You've got more people who care for you than almost anyone I know. They'd do anything for you. Wiggins, Greg, Molly, even Mike Stamford. Sorry love, but if that's not friendship I don't know what is."

Sherlock gave John a fond nudge with his shoulder. "My John. I always knew you were deceptively intelligent. Of course, you're right."

"Screwed your head up for ages. If Mycroft hadn't fed you all that bollocks we might not have ended up where we are."

"True, but we also wouldn't have ended up with what we've got. So perhaps I should thank him. A box of pastries perhaps."

John smirked. "Sherlock Holmes, you are a very bad man, and I adore you."

Sherlock shimmied down the bed so he could rest his head in John's lap, John's fingers automatically reaching for his love's dark locks, carding and massaging with tender adoration.

"Do you want to tell the rest of it?"

Sherlock reached a hand out and gently stroked John's leg from knee to thigh. The motion was soothing for both of them.

"I never told you about my overdose. It wasn't that I was using. I was working on a case. Kids, mostly street kids, my kids, were dying due to a bad batch of E being sold cheap by dealers who knew it was lethal, but wanted a return on their investment. I located the main dealer. Unfortunately his Serbian contacts were more sceptical of my cover story. Let's just say my presence was no longer required. Lestrade found me suffering from a massive overdose of cocaine. Of course, I woke up to Mycroft looking dishevelled next to my hospital bed. The only reason I allowed my parents to supervise my recovery was as penance for not having seen them for nearly five years, and because Mummy slapped Mycroft and banished him from the house for over a year when he confessed how he had treated me. Unfortunately, it made them overly cautious of my relationship with drugs. You know I've never been an addict John, but when I returned, but before I was officially reinstated as an extant human being, Mycroft whisked me to my parents to present me to them, in the flesh as it were. Of course, they knew the fall was a ruse. Mycroft had made sure of that. I know, I apologise John. You know if I could I would have never chosen to cause you such torment."

John had tensed when Sherlock mentioned his parents being informed of his continued existence after the confrontation with Moriarty. At Sherlock's repeated apology and soothing squeeze of his thigh he relaxed, breathing in deeply to calm the pain that still lingered from that time.

"I know love. I know. And they had to be told."

"Thank you, my John. They were, of course, very shaken, and were inundated with phone calls and sympathisers as soon as the news broke. They had to be prepared for the onslaught that was to come. I wish I had been as prepared when Mycroft paraded me before them after my return. I was forced to apologise and confirm, ad nauseam, that I was well, and had not relapsed into my 'addiction' while I was away. I stood before them like a child, hands clasped behind my back and head bowed, awaiting their judgement upon me and their forgiveness. It was humiliating. And all the while Mycroft presided over me, receiving gratitude for keeping me safe while I was away, for ensuring I returned safely, for being the caring older brother. He positively preened. It was sickening."

"You didn't use? While you were away." John's voice was subdued, hiding the pain he felt at the possibility that Sherlock had resorted to drugs.

"No John. There were times when it would have been damn useful. To have had that level of focus to process what I knew, but it was simply too dangerous. My accommodation was rarely more than a bolt hole. Never secure, and with no-one to watch my back, that degree of isolation from my surroundings would have been suicidal. But it was that my own family thought I was an addict. That's what hurt the most. Mycroft encouraging Lestrade's drug busts and persuading you of danger nights. No wonder I behaved like a petulant child when everyone treated me as such. I merely conformed to expectations."

"Ahh, like your high-functioning sociopath act."

"People see but they do not observe. And what they see is what they expect to see, not what is really there."

"So, this weekend? We have nothing planned. And I'd like to meet your parents. They should see the wonderful, loving man their little boy has grown into, don't you think?"

"Very well John."

"And perhaps if you called them something other than Mummy and Daddy. Leave that to Mycroft's infantilist fantasies. Perhaps take a leaf out of Linley's book and call them Ma and Pa, or simply Mum and Dad. That's what I'll probably call them, if they'll allow me."

"Hmm, you may be right. Mum and Dad. That's workable." Suddenly Sherlock exploded with laughter. "Sorry, sorry John. Just Mycroft in a nappy. What a picture."

"Oh Sherlock, you bastard. I'll never be able to look at him without giggling again!"

-0-0-0-

On Saturday morning Mycroft's car drew up outside a red painted cottage just as the village church finished striking eleven. Sherlock, Mary and John walked up to the front door whilst their driver removed their luggage from the car boot.

The door was opened by a short woman of similar height to Mary, her now silver hair cut into a bob that curled to rest jus above her shoulders. Behind her a silver haired gentleman of similar height and build to Sherlock smiled warmly. Mary couldn't help but notice the check shirt and cardie, almost identical to John's normal wardrobe choice. She brushed her fingers over John's hand to get his attention whilst nudging him slightly with her hip.

They were ushered inside amidst warm welcomes and expressions of delight. Coats were taken and the driver instructed to leave luggage at the foot of the stairs. Finally they entered a comfortable sitting room dominated by a huge stone fireplace.

Sherlock's parents stood on one side, Seger Holmes tucked behind his wife's right shoulder. They looked expectantly at their son, who stood opposite, his shoulder tense, flanked my Mary to his left and John to his right. Despite Sherlock's obvious discomfort, John could see that his parents were full of love for their son. Two sets of eyes sparkled in his direction, drinking in his healthy appearance, his mother obviously suppressing the urge to bundle him into her arms as soon as he'd manage to get passed the introductions he needed to make.

"Mum, Dad. I'd like you to meet John Watson and Mary Morstan-Watson. Umm, they're, well, it's not entirely legal, but … they're my husband and wife."

Hands flew to Enora's mouth as tears sprung to the corners of her eyes. Seger looked briefly shocked before a gentle smile spread across his face. Seger was the first to move, stepping towards his son to grab him in an all embracing hug, before turning to embrace Mary.

"My boy, I'm so very proud of you. And Mary. Welcome to the family." Turning, he spotted John. "My boy, come here. Welcome, welcome. You may call me Seger, although I'm always happy to be called …"

"Dad." Sherlock said with determination. "From now on, Dad. If, if that's acceptable?"

"Oh, my boy. Of course it is. I've always wanted to be Dad. It's just so amazing. I never thought I'd see the day. Oh, my boy, you've made me so proud. And John, Mary, of it's wonderful."

All the while Enora had remained, eyes fixed on her son, tears rolling gently down her cheeks, eyes sparkling with love, and hands clasped to her mouth.

Sherlock turned to her and looked with concern. "Mum?"

Enora awoke from her reverie, stepping forward to wrap her son in her arms, pulling him tight to her chest, her cheek resting on his ribs, making his shirt damp as her tears fell. "My darling, my precious darling. You've made me so happy. So, so happy. My beautiful baby is all grown up. Oh, my gorgeous, gorgeous boy. You've finally found yourself. I was so terribly afraid you wouldn't allow yourself, but I shouldn't have feared. I should have trusted you to find your way."

"Thank you Mum. I couldn't have done it alone. Not without the friends I've made along the way, and especially not without John and Mary. You're not shocked are you? About us. Of course, we can't legally get married, but as far as we're concerned that's what we are."

"My darling, of course I'm delighted. I worked out you were probably asexual. It's amazing what you can find on the internet now. I feared that you would always be alone. Then you started living with John and I hoped, I really hoped. Now, with Mary as well you have what I always wanted for you, a family with people who love and cherish you. Of course I'm all right. A mother couldn't ask for more."

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	25. GO, GO, GO! part 1

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

**Trigger warnings: mentions paedophilia, mentions child trafficking**

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Having received the lead about Douglas and Stuart Kelvin, and Kelvin Distribution and Logistics Limited, the investigation escalated rapidly.

SIS hackers discretely copied company files looking for shipping routes and customers. They also delved into every aspect of the two men's personal life. Bank accounts, online activity, even social media accounts were all investigated and scrutinised. Every connection the two men had was identified, investigated and either discounted or further investigated. Anything and everything was analysed by experts attempting to identify any thread that would lead them to what they wanted.

It quickly became obvious that the operation was so simple it had completed bypassed everyone's notice. There were no clever websites or complicated codes. It was really all very basic.

Stuart or Douglas would open an account under a false name on one of the many paedophile websites available online to support people with the predilection, who, _of course_, would never dream of acting upon their impulses. Except, when someone was obviously affluent enough, Doug or Stuart would make a little suggestion. Nothing too overt, just a nudge that maybe they could provide, in the flesh, their correspondent's perfect plaything. At the right price of course. Private emails were exchanged, money paid into the bank account that no-one ever touched, and suddenly a shipping container was heading in to the desired location via KDL Ltd.

There was no problem with customs because KDL shipped regularly and, for a small consideration, local officials would look the other way for special deliveries assuming they contained the usual contraband. Normally the shipments were smuggled goods, small scale but lucrative, for private cutomers. Except very occasionally the cargo consisted of drugged, kidnapped children. Most of the officials were oblivious, simply earning a little extra, after all it wasn't guns or drugs so what did it matter. However, a couple of customs officials were in on the plan. It was obvious by the ridiculously high payments they received. They'd found out and were milking it for all it was worth.

KDL had a small team of delivery men who dealt with special cargoes. They were well known around freight depots across the globe. One of them, Terry Spencer, head of KDL Special Operations, and, truth be told, mastermind of the whole operation, liaised with the gangs who worked overseas, responsible for kidnapping children and exporting them from their homelands to the UK or wherever 'the merchandise' was required.

KDL's records were meticulous. Every transaction, every payment, every customer, every employee, and every contact they were paying off were all documented. It had needed an agent to break into KDL's head office to access the stand-alone server that held the records, but the information they gathered was pure gold.

When Anthea confirmed, after twenty days of hard work, that everything was in place to take the whole operation down, Mycroft leant back in his chair with a satisfied smile. "Excellent. Carry on my dear."

When the operation had been laid before him, Mycroft could not believe that such a simple scheme had gone undetected for so long. He remembered Moriarty had once goaded Sherlock with how he always looked for the complicated solution to crimes. Mycroft never thought he would agree with the criminal psychopath, but in this case it was true. Everyone had been looking for complicated networks, when in reality it was all based on a very simple smuggling operation.

-0-0-0-

It was six o'clock in the evening and the KDL head office was emptying out for the evening. The twenty-four hour switchboard had been outsourced to a call centre in India a couple of years before, leaving only the administrative operation in the head-office building. Douglas, Stuart and Terry, when he was in the UK, were well known for being amongst the last to leave each night. The staff thought them workaholics, when in reality it was the safest time to discuss their side line in sex trafficking.

Douglas was just shutting down his PC preparing to head for home. Tonight would be an early night as Terry was in Kiev supervising a shipment from Tolmachevo airport in Russia. They'd talk when he returned tomorrow. Tonight he would spend with his family. A relaxing meal, and an evening by the fire with a whisky and a Montecristo Edmundo cigar sounded perfect.

He startled when Stuart burst through his office door. "What the hell?"

"We need to get out now Doug. Terry called. The operation has been raided. I tried calling back but he's not answering. I called Meifen in Hong Kong. She's not answering either. Neither is Barry in Unakan, Bangkok. I think we're being hit. We need to take what we can and get out now."

Just then Doug's phone rang on his personal line. He stared at it then ignored it, making his way to the wall safe. The phone dropped to the answer machine; he'd never been able to get the hang of voicemail. Stuart dashed to his own office to do the same as Doug opened the safe, removing passports in various names, forged documents and bundles of cash. He also grabbed the book containing the passcodes and essential information to access the offshore bank accounts.

The standard answer machine message finished. Tipping his gym clothes onto the floor, Doug stuffed the safe contents into the holdall as his wife's hysterical voice rang round the office, his boys' terrified screams echoing in the background. "Doug, Doug. What the fuck have you done? There's armed men here. Doug, Do…" The phone call cut off abruptly. No doubt someone had got to his wife's mobile. Silly cow could fend for herself now. She'd been nothing but a money pit anyway. Good for keeping up appearances, but useless for anything else. She couldn't even cook. Doug felt a certain satisfaction that the useless woman and her hateful spawn were gone from his life.

Stuart reappeared at his door. "You ready?"

"Yeah. Best head for Ravensfield and take one of the planes from there. We can take the motorbikes. They'll be harder to track. Hopefully they won't have got to the airfield yet."

"Don't forget to leave your mobile. We don't want to be traced."

"Already done. Haven't been on a bike in years. Just like old times huh Stewie? Let's get going before the cops get here."

The two men made it to Ravensfield airfield in less than twenty minutes, but arrived only just ahead of the black SUVs that were bearing down on the logistics company's smallest, but original distribution centre.

Realising they would not get away in time they decided to hide, dumping their bikes amongst the vehicles stored by the main hanger and running past bewildered staff towards the control tower. Once out of sight, a quick turn and a two hundred yard dash brought them to the old maintenance hut. Unused by the logistics company for years and long forgotten, it covered the entrance to the WWII air raid shelter under the floor. The main door had been had been sealed decades before, but it had not taken much work to create a new entrance and convert the moderately spacious bunker into a holding room for their secret merchandise. Lifting off the man hole cover that disguised the entrance, Doug and Stuart scrambled down the ladder, drawing the cover closed before switching on the light.

"Damn, they were too fast. We'll have to hide in here until they're gone then fly out when it's all clear. How are we stocked?"

Stuart checked the supplies. The room was small but well provisioned. After all, the merchandise needed to be kept in prime condition. There was packaged food, bottled water, a small bathroom with a chemical loo. Even a computer game console and a stack of toys in the corner.

The younger brother cracked a wry smile. "Well at least we won't starve. Although we might get a bit bored, unless you like the Twilight books or Grand Theft Auto."

"We can stick it out for a few days. We've had worse in our time. Did you hear anything from Beverley before you left?"

"No. I heard Angela yelling at you though."

"Yeah, well. No change there. I hope someone shot her. She's always been one to lash out when she gets angry."

"Will you miss her, or the kids?"

"Nah, not for a minute. Might've been different if I'd had a daughter, but two boys. Not really my thing."

"I'll miss Beverley. She was a damn fine shag. And dirty with it. What she'd let me do. Christ."

"Nothing you can't get in any whore house in Hong Kong."

"True enough. We've got to get there first though."

"Best go through what we've got to play with. We can't stay here too long with no change of clothes."

"We can always pick stuff up along the way."

"True enough. Now, passports. I've got Irish, British and South African. You?"

"Same."

-0-0-0-

It took longer than they'd thought for the investigation at Ravensfield to die down. When they finally emerged, cramped and stinking five days later, the airfield was more or less deserted. KDL's operation had been closed down, the staff gone, along with every aircraft and vehicle. If they wanted to leave they would have to do so on foot.

They used the shower in the staff locker room to freshen up. They couldn't find a razor, so the week's beard growth had to remain. They managed to scrape together a change of clothes by breaking into the abandoned lockers. The vending machine provided the same junk foods they'd had to endure in their hide-out, but the coffee made a pleasant change even if it was crap instant.

Stuart turned on the TV in the break room, switching it to a news channel.

"Hey Doug, good thing we've got these beards. Our faces are plastered all over the news. Looks like we're Britain's most wanted. The bad news is they've got people at every terminal. We're going to struggle to get out unless we can call in a favour."

"Ric Blandon has a helicopter. He wouldn't want his 'interest' getting out. I'll give him a call."

"Where from? Even if the landline's still working it's probably tapped."

"I found a mobile in one of the lockers. It's not password protected. I can call on that. No-one will be any the wiser."

"You've got his number?"

Doug waved his notebook in the air. "All here little brother."

The call was placed and the phone answered, but not by Sir Cedric Blandon, nor his secretary. Doug made his apologies, claimed a wrong number, and hung up.

"I think we're on our own Stewie."

"We always have been Doug. So what do we do?"

-0-0-0-

In the end they decided to head for London. Despite the high levels of CCTV coverage, they were confident that their beards and a couple of recently purchased baseball caps would be sufficient to disguise them amongst the crowds. They also felt they stood more chance of finding a way out. With the cash at their disposal, Doug was confident that he could buy passage out of the country for them both.

They bought a used car for cash in the first small town they came to. The beaten up old Peugeot 206 got them into London OK. They didn't bother about the congestion charge, after all the car was still registered with the previous owner and they weren't going to use it for long.

Doug, with his usual air of confidence, decided that their best bet for contacting someone to help them was in Peckham. After all, everyone knew that everyone in Peckham was a villain. Unfortunately for Doug, this wisdom was based on too many episodes of 'The Sweeney' and 'Only Fools and Horses'. They'd decided to try their hand in a suitably dubious looking pub near Peckham Rye station. They spent the day sipping weak lager interspersed with pints of orange juice to pace themselves. The only food available were packets of crisps and pork scratchings. By the time a suitably dodgy looking group breezed in like they owned the place, both brothers were drunk enough to throw caution to the wind. Leaving his holdall with Stuart, Doug rose none too steadily from his stool and approached the leader of the group with an air of authority and privilege.

"Hey, you. Are you a criminal? If you are, I'll stand you and your gang a round. I need a little help with something that's not quite legal. I can make it worth your while."

Of course, the men agreed that they were in deed the worst gang of crooks and cut throats south of the river. Doug bought them all pints and doubles of whisky, paying the barman with a handful of notes produced from his holdall. The leader, called Ray, encouraged Doug and Stuart to join them in more whisky to celebrate their new criminal enterprise.

When the brothers awoke the next morning, cuddled together for warmth in a back alley, their heads aching, and their money gone, their vomiting was as much a result of the hangover as the realisation of their own stupidity.

Doug sat on the curb, his head in his hands. "How could I have been so bloody stupid?"

"It's OK. We've still got the passports and the book. We can get to the money in the offshore accounts. One big hit, just like we planned."

"Yeah, but not looking like this. We still need to get out of the country. And I've got no idea how."

It was a sign of their own desperation that they decided the way out was via the cause of their problems. That interfering detective. It was probable that their people in the flat next door would have slunk away as soon as the news broke, meaning that there would be a nice empty flat right next door with a hotline into the detective's living room. The men made their way to Baker Street. They rang the bell to 219, the door answered by a friendly looking woman in her sixties.

"We're here to visit Dave and Helen in Flat 3. We're Helen's cousins, up in town for a few days. They said we could stay with them and to ask you to let us in. I'm George by the way, and this is Michael."

The woman looked momentarily confused, but quickly brightened. "Pleasure meeting you. Dave and Helen are probably out at work at the moment. I'm Mrs Turner, their landlady. It's lovely to meet family of Helen's. She's a sweet girl. They so rarely have visitors. And they're so quiet. But you'd know that of course. Now here we are. I'm only letting you because you're family. I'm downstairs in Flat 1 if you need anything. Say hello to them for me. I haven't bumped into them in days."

Doug and Stuart smiled sweetly, keen to get the interfering old busy body away as soon as possible. Once inside the flat Stuart made a beeline for the shower while Doug rummaged through Dave's clothes in the wardrobe. It didn't register as odd that Dave hadn't packed when he ran.

He sorted out clothes that would vaguely fit himself and his brother, then busied himself raiding the kitchen. The milk in the fridge was on the turn, but good enough for coffee. He found a cafetiere in the cupboard and ground coffee in a canister in the fridge. He filled up the kettle with fresh water, setting it to boil just as Stuart emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a men's towelling bathrobe, rubbing his hair dry.

"I kept the beard. It seemed sensible until we know our escape route. Go get in the shower Doug, you'll feel better. I'll find us something to eat."

"OK. Coffee's in the kitchen and there's clothes on the bed."

"Cheers."

When Doug re-entered the kitchen some while later, pink skinned from his long soak in the bath, but clean and clothed, Stuart was just dishing up a pie and chips he'd found in the freezer.

They ate with gusto as they planned their next move.


	26. GO, GO, GO! part 2

A relatively short chapter. Things are hotting up in the hunt for the people traffickers.

* * *

**Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.**

Single quotation mark bold indicate text messages.

**Trigger warnings: swearing**

* * *

John was halfway through his afternoon shift at A&amp;E when his phone buzzed with a new text message. He finished handing his latest patient over to the nurse who would escort them to the X-ray Department for their suspected fractured femur. Taking a moment to relax he pulled out his phone to glance at the message, expecting it to be something innocuous from Sherlock.

He was half right. It was from Sherlock, but was far from innocuous.

**'Diogenes Club urgent. Mycroft has sent car. SH.'**

John quickly arranged cover for the remainder of his shift, grabbed his coat and leapt into the waiting car.

Try as he might, he couldn't stop his mind worrying at what needed his urgent attendance. It had to be the Kelvins. The man hunt was in full swing ever since the team sent to arrest them had missed them at their head office. A co-ordinated raid across the planet all happening at the same time, and the one team that needed to get it right were delayed for ten minutes by a broken down bus, giving two of the ring leaders time to make their escape. There had been no sightings since they disappeared at the airfield. No aircraft were missing so they hadn't flown out, but a search of the airfield turned up nothing. They'd vanished into thin air.

Of course, the couple in Mrs Turner's flat had been picked up as part of the raid. It turned out they were hired guns, not even surveillance specialists, just a couple of low level con artists who didn't mind what they did for money, and thought it sounded like easy pickings.

The relief when they were arrested was surprising. None of the residents of 221B had noticed how much being under constant surveillance had worn at them. They went a little bit mad that first evening, getting very drunk, swearing copiously (because Mary had felt embarrassed about swearing when she was being recorded), and finally snuggling together on the sofa, relieved at no longer having to hide their true relationship in their own home.

The flat next door had been searched, but left in situ, just in case other members of the organisation made their way there. It was unlikely, but, honestly, the investigation team had more important things to occupy them. Picking over the flat could wait until later. Mycroft had the bugs removed from 221B and took the recordings into evidence. He had his people go through them first to ensure anything too personal was removed from the official record.

John's worried musings stuttered to a halt when his driver announced their arrival. He was greeted in silence by the elegantly uniformed doorman and led silently through the interminable corridors of The Diogenes Club by a footman before being shown into Mycroft's office.

Only once the door almost silently closed behind him did John explode. "Well? What's happened?"

"Calm down John. It looks like we have them. Mrs Turner has just called. Two men arrived on her doorstep ninety minutes ago claiming to be cousins of 'Helen Marshall' and asking if they could wait in the flat. Of course, Mrs Turner played her part beautifully, allowed them entry then called my people. We are not sure why they are in the flat, as opposed to fleeing the country. One can only assume that their plans have in some way been disrupted. They are, after all, surprisingly stupid men. Having questioned him, it is obvious that Terry Spencer is the true brains behind the operation. It was only when he was brought into KDL that this whole child smuggling operation began. However, the Kelvins have enjoyed a late lunch and are planning their move. They seem to be of the opinion that you, Sherlock, can help them escape the country. They are unaware that the listening devices have been removed or that their employees have been arrested, so are making themselves comfortable until you arrive home, when they will no doubt attempt to hold you for ransom and flee the country. We left a few devices of our own in the 'Marshall's' flat simply to monitor things. They are currently drinking coffee, playing a computer game, Grand Theft Auto I believe … " Mycroft made a moue of disgust. "… and discussing what they want to do to you, dear brother, as retribution for your interference. It is quite colourful, in a childish way."

Anthea suddenly entered the room. Despite her regular change of code name, Mycroft still thought of his steadfast colleague as Anthea, the appellation she'd selected when she first joined his staff.

"Sir, we have a problem. Apparently the 'Marshall's' were provided with an illegal firearm when they were installed in the flat. It was well hidden, behind the bath panel."

John felt anxiety tighten in his gut. "Tell me you found it when you searched the flat."

Anthea looked shame faced and Mycroft looked angry. "No, unfortunately not. But the Kelvin's did know where it was hidden and have just recovered it from its hiding place. They are planning to await your return then force Sherlock to help them. They are quite prepared to kill anyone who stands in their way."

"Bollocks, Mary!" John's face was ashen. "Mary's finishing early today. She has a meal planned, wanted us home by five sharp. Shit! Our wife's alone in the flat with two armed madmen next door!"

Mycroft tried to be the voice of calm. "Do you have your weapon with you?"

John stared at Mycroft in disbelief. "Of course I bloody don't Mycroft. I don't carry it to hospital, only when I'm out with Sherlock. It's in the safe in our bedroom."

"Well that's something anyway. They can't gain access to a second weapon."

"Unless they force Mary to open the safe."

Sherlock attempted to comfort his husband. "They have no reason to John. How would they even know you have a gun? It's not like America where everyone owns one. And we've always been careful to keep any mention of firearms out of the police and press reports. Even the safe is well hidden. Unless they ransack the flat they won't find it."

John calmed a little. "So what do we do? It's gone four. Mary will already there. They may already be in our home."

Mycroft made a decision. He was angered that it was on his watch that the Kelvin's had escaped, and it was his team who had failed to secure the handgun that now threatened his sister-in-law. He was going to make this right. He had to. He had failed his brother too often in his life, he was not going to fail now.

"Jenkins is waiting downstairs. Have him drive you back to Baker Street. I will call Mrs Hudson to determine the situation. I will instruct her to lock herself in her flat and remain there until we give the all clear."

Sherlock and John left the Club via the exit to the private car park. As promised, Jenkins was waiting, engine running.

Neither man spoke, each lost in their thoughts, until John's phone rang. It was Mycroft.

"John. Mrs Hudson is secure. She believes no-one has entered since Mary returned home shortly after four. However, we have heard nothing from the flat at 219 since three forty-five. It is possible they are already in your flat and awaiting your arrival. At this juncture it is impossible to know whether Mary is held captive, or is unaware she has guests. I have a team on standby, but will deploy once we know the situation."

"OK. Good to know. So, Sherlock and I will go in. Your team is to wait for our signal. The panic buttons are still in place, one on the stair and one by the double doors? Good. We'll hit one of those when we need you. Make sure you've got your best agent on the surveillance camera. We may not be able to reach the buttons so you need someone who can make a judgement call."

"Of course John. McGregor is monitoring. He has seen no sign of intruders as yet, but has confirmed that Mary is home. She is not displaying any signs of duress, so we must assume she is currently alone."

"Good. At least that's something. This had better bloody work Mycroft. If anything happens to Mary neither of us will be taking any prisoners. Understood?"

-0-0-0-

Mary arrived home shortly after four. She unpacked her shopping then took a shower. She was just exiting her bedroom having dressed in leggings and a t-shirt when she heard the front door bell. Less than a minute later it rang again. Mrs Hudson could not be in. Slipping on her shoes she made her way downstairs. She opened the door to greet two men, both scruffily bearded, wearing baseball caps and dark glasses.

"Hello. Can I help you?"

"We're here to see Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, clients. He will be pleased. Come in and take a seat down the hall. He should be home shortly."

The men seemed jumpy, but that wasn't unusual for Sherlock's personal clients. They followed the way she indicated, taking the seats outside flat C.

As she made her way back upstairs, she texted Sherlock. **'Clients, 2 men, outside C waiting 4 U. B long? Mx '**

In the car, Sherlock's for beeped. "John, Mary's OK, but they're in 221B waiting for us outside flat C. There's no telling if they'll remain there. Jenkins, how much longer?"

"Five minutes sir."

"Sherlock, tell Mary to get upstairs and lock the door, just to be on the safe side. I don't want to scare her unnecessarily, but I don't want her putting herself in danger."

"Done. Jenkins, quick as you can please."

Mary received the text, frowned, but locked the door to their flat anyway. Sherlock had said they'd be home shortly so she started on dinner. Vegetable lasagne made with leeks instead of pasta, a particular favourite of Sherlock's. Grabbing the chopping board she began preparing the vegetables.


	27. GO, GO, GO! part 3

Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.

Reference to events in 'Becoming' chapter 2.

Single quotation mark bold indicate text messages

**Trigger warnings: blood**

* * *

Mycroft sat in his office tapping his finger tips together, his eyes closed so they did not continually flick to the phone awaiting its ring. Despite being alone in his office he disliked the concern that caused his body to betray itself in uncontrolled gestures. He had dealt with far worse than this, terrorism, wars, a couple of Royal weddings. Rarely had he felt this level of nervous tension.

The phone rang. His hand flew to the receiver only for him to pause a moment before lifting it to his ear. No need to betray his concern to his subordinates, although Anthea was no doubt well aware of his feelings.

Anthea's voice did little to allay his fears. "Sir, confirmation from Jenkins that they've entered the flat. No alert as yet. Teams on standby."

"Very good. Do not wait for confirmation. If an alert is received teams are cleared for immediate go. Notify all parties, lethal force only if necessary. One friendly secure in downstairs flat. No entry required unless evidence of forced incursion. Three friendlies upstairs. All care must be taken to prevent collateral damage."

"Understood Sir. Teams will be apprised."

Mycroft replaced the telephone handset and leant back in his chair, returning to his previous position. All he could do now was wait.

-0-0-0-

Mary continued chopping vegetables, leaving the onions until last. They always made her cry. She turned to the cupboard for a frying pan, and a saucepan for the béchamel sauce. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she turned back to the chopping board preparing to start on the onions.

"I'm in the kitchen. I'd kill for a cuppa."

She glanced up with concern when she heard someone enter the kitchen but, unusually, received no response to her request. Sherlock came in first, eyes flicking around before staring fixedly at her, mouth tight, hands raised above his head. John followed behind, hands similarly raised, his face a picture of seething anger. Mary froze, onion in hand, knife poised above the board.

The two men who'd called earlier followed her boys in. Neither had their hands raised, so obviously at least one of them was armed, probably with a gun.

"You, shorty, over there by the fridge. Stewie, find something to make sure he stays put. Mr Clever Clogs, with me."

The older man waved the gun none to steadily towards the end of the table. Mary was trapped. The table in front of her, the stove behind, an unarmed man with John at one end, and a gun toting lunatic with Sherlock, their backs to the living room door.

Leaving an unarmed man to guard John was a mistake. As soon as the gun was off of Sherlock, John was more than capable of taking the man down. Especially as the imbecile had now moved in front of him and closer to Mary as he searched intently through drawers trying to find a suitable weapon.

John remained pinned in place by the gun pointed at Sherlock as the unarmed man moved further away from him, towards Mary, his search through drawers taking all his attention, confident that his brother controlled the situation. The drawer he'd just closed with a huff contained dish clothes and tea towels. The drawer his hand would move to next contained, amongst other things, knives. John knew he needed to act now otherwise there would be two armed men to deal with, and both of them far too close to his loves and too far away from him.

Sherlock tried to manoeuvre Doug backwards towards the double doors and the panic button. The armed man was having none of it, jabbing the barrel of the pistol sharply into Sherlock's lower back, causing him to cry out in pain and fall forwards.

It was all Mary needed, Sherlock out of the way so she had a clear view of her target. Remembering the skills she'd perfected with Illy in Angola, she let the kitchen knife fly, seeing it bury itself deep in the man's right shoulder, low enough to avoid the rib and subclavian artery, but high enough to cause him to drop the pistol and cry out in agony.

The other man looked up, startled, as Mary turned, grasped the frying pan handle and lashed out at his head. John leapt forward intent on placing the man in a choke hold. Instead the younger Kelvin slumped into an inelegant heap at his feet, blood flowing freely from a wound to his skull, the blood matting his hair and dripping down his ear into his beard.

Sherlock stood up, kicking the pistol away from his captor before grabbing a tea towel off the table and, balling it up, pressing it to Doug Kelvin's wound, careful to avoid nudging the kitchen knife buried almost to the hilt in his prone body. He studied the wound for a moment before taking the two paces to the panic button. Having activated it he turned back to Mary who was currently helping John restrain the now unconscious Stuart Kelvin.

"Nice throw Mary. Excellent placing in the upper right quadrant, centred on the pectoralis major. Enough to incapacitate but not to cause long term damage unless the idiot tries to withdraw the knife himself, risking extensive secondary trauma, and damage to the subclavian artery resulting in death by exsanguination." Glancing at the moaning man who was currently trying to reach for the knife handle, he addressed the remainder of his comment to him. "That's blood loss to you, idiot. If you value your life, leave it alone. An ambulance is on the way."

Mary stood up and surveyed her handwork. "Dammit. I was aiming for his throat." Her voice was matter of fact, betraying no adverse reaction to the drama that had just played out in her kitchen.

That caused Doug Kelvin to freeze, his already ashen features turning even paler as he realised just how close to sudden death he had come.

Sherlock suddenly bellowed "CLEAR!" towards the stairs, followed by "Kitchen is secure. Targets in custody. Stand down."

Armed men clad in black and wearing armoured vests poured into the flat, assessed the situation then spoke into radios. Moments later Anthea appeared, serene as ever.

"Ambulances have just arrived. The targets will remain in our custody. As soon as the police secure the scene, my team will vacate. Mr Holmes sends his compliments, especially to you Professor Watson. An impressive display of knife skills." She flashed Mary a quick smile of congratulations and respect. Mary returned the smile, suspecting an interesting conversation next time they met up.

Anthea continued "Mr Holmes will arrange for a clean-up crew to decontaminate your home once forensics have released the scene." She shot a look of disgust at the moaning elder Kelvin as if to emphasis the word 'decontaminate'. "If you would care to take advantage of Jenkins once you have made your statements, a suite at Claridge's is awaiting you for the next two nights, to ensure everything is completed to your satisfaction before your return. A table has been reserved at 'Fera' for tomorrow night. We assumed you would prefer room service tonight. There's no need to pack anything except personal possessions. Your clothing and personal care requirements have already been taken care of and will be awaiting you in your room. We are currently speaking to Mrs Hudson. She and Mrs Turner will be enjoying a spa break for the next few days. A thank you for their help, whilst our people finish securing the properties."

Without a glance, Anthea stepped demurely to one side as paramedics suddenly bounded through the door behind her and towards their two patients. By the time John and Mary had handed over, and joined Sherlock in the living room, Anthea had already disappeared.

"Well, two nights at Claridge's. As Mycroft's paying, do you think he'd mind very much if I book a massage? Mrs Hudson's spa break sounds lovely right now."

John smiled at Mary, nodding his head in agreement. "I know what you mean. My shoulder could do with a bit of TLC."

The ping of Sherlock's phone indicated the arrival of a new message.

**'All services of the Health Club and Spa are at your disposal '**

He turned the screen to John and Mary for them to read. Mary cast her eyes towards the ceiling.

"Thank you Mycroft. And make sure that _all_ the bugs are gone by the time we get back. If I find any surveillance in my home I will be very, _very_ unhappy. Understood?"

Sherlock received another message causing him to explode with laughter. John and Mary scooted along the sofa to see the screen held out for them in Sherlock's shaking hand.

**'Quite, sister dear.'**

-0-0-0-

Greg arrived as the still unconscious Stuart Kelvin was being loaded into his ambulance, Douglas Kelvin's ambulance already having begun its journey to St Mary's hospital. DI Dimmock and his team were leading the investigation, but were still getting themselves organised when Greg had dashed to the car park and grabbed the first available driver, feeling shaken enough not to risk driving himself in rush-hour traffic.

Greg was out of his car and up the stairs like a shot, worried for his friends and what he might find when he arrived in the flat he knew so well. Information had been sketchy at best. Simply that there was an armed hostage situation in 221B Baker Street with Special Forces in attendance, but that the Met and their forensics team were required to process the scene. As a DCI, Greg wasn't required to attend, but there was no way he wasn't going to be on site to make sure his friends were OK, and to find out what chaos Sherlock had got himself and John embroiled in this time.

He fought his way up the stairs, dodging black clad men, all toting Heckler &amp; Koch HK53 rifles with Sig Sauer P226 pistols holstered on their hips. He made sure that his Warrant Card was clearly visible as he finally reached the small landing. A mountain in black, bristling with weapons and a low tolerance bullshit stood resolutely in front of the door to the living room, barring his way. Greg identified himself to have the man silently gesture towards the kitchen door with nothing more than a brief nod of his head.

Stepping into the kitchen doorway Greg took in the scene, he's heart in his throat. He'd been careful to pull on nitrile gloves before he left his car and driver at the kerb, and had donned blue crime scene shoe covers as he stepped through the front door. Now the air left his lungs and he nearly doubled over as he saw the blood stains on the floor, one near the stove and another near the doors to the living room. The smell of chopped vegetables added to the sickly smell of freshly spilled blood caused his stomach to roil.

"Oh god Sherlock. What have you got yourself into?"

His head shot up when Sherlock's voice rang through from the living room. "In here Greg. Come through. Try not to ruin the crime scene. Even Anderson should be able to sort this one out."

Letting out a snort of relieved laughter, Greg carefully picked his way back to the landing and past the man mountain to find his three friends on the sofa, all apparently none the worse for wear.

"What the hell did you do Sherlock? Are you all alright? Whose is the blood?"

John spoke up from his position towards one end of the sofa, Mary snuggled against him and Sherlock prostrate, his head in Mary's lap where she was absently carding his hair.

"The blood belongs to a couple of parasites who thought they could use Sherlock to skip the country. Idiots. You probably saw the ambulances taking them away."

"But you're all OK?"

"Yeah, we're fine. Sherlock might have some bruising where the bastard jabbed him with his gun. It's under the table by the way, where Sherlock kicked it. You'll need to secure the frying pan too. Mary used it in self-defence on one of them. The kitchen knife is still probably buried in the other moron's shoulder so you'll have to get that off of Mycroft. All the action took place in the hall, stair way and kitchen so keep your team out of our bedrooms, if you don't mind."

"Yeah, sure. But you're all OK?"

"Maybe a bit of shock once we calm down, but otherwise no physical injuries. Thanks for coming, by the way."

"Well, when the call came in of a hostage situation at 221B, of course I was straight out the door. I had to check up on my friends didn't I?"

"Woohoo, I've brought tea. Oh, hello Inspector. I heard you arrive so I've brought an extra cup, and there's biscuits and some buttered barnbrack cake I made yesterday."

The man mountain had stood to one side without hesitation to allow the elderly lady to pass.

Mary looked up at their not-housekeeper with a smile. "Thank you Mrs Hudson. You're an angel. Will you join us? You've had an exciting day too."

"Oh Mary, I'd love to, but you see I need to finish my packing. Mycroft has kindly arranged for myself and Mrs Turner next door to spend the next few days in a spa being pampered and primped. I can't wait. It's so exciting. So if you don't mind I'll leave you to it. Just leave everything in here when you've finished. Mycroft said his people will take care of it all and have it all spick and span by the time I get back. You take care dears, and I'll see you in a few days. Goodbye Inspector. Give my love to your dear wife, and make sure you get back to her at a reasonable time. We can't have you spending all night here when there's those that love you needing you at home."

"Yes Mrs Hudson. And thank you for the tea."

Sherlock turned his head to watch his landlady leave. "Have a lovely time Hudders. Don't frighten the pool boys."

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes. How could you. It was only once." And she disappeared down the stairs with a naughty little giggle.

Three pairs of eyes all focused on Sherlock with combinations of bemusement and horror. "What? It was a long time ago. In Florida. And he was a very attractive pool boy."

-0-0-0-

The four friends continued to sit on the sofa, drinking tea and munching through Mrs Hudson's excellent baking until DI Dimmock arrived accompanied by one of Mycroft's solicitors who would be present whilst their statements were taken. Greg said his goodbyes and headed for home, having handed the crime scene over to Dimmock's team, including explicit instructions that the bedrooms were off limits.

The witness statements were fairly straight forward, the solicitor emphasising that any injuries sustained by the suspects were in self-defence by victims being held at gunpoint in their own home by wanted and desperate criminals. The details were kept fairly basic. No mention was made of the flat having been under surveillance for nearly two months, nor of the part the flat in 219 played. Since so much of the case fell under National Security, it was unlikely the Kelvin brothers would ever stand trial, at least in public. The statements were really for procedural and bureaucratic purposes, but needed to be completed none the less.

Less than an hour later, hands were being shaken and Dimmock was saying his goodbyes, returning to supervise his people in the kitchen.

John dashed to their bedroom to grab laptops and cables, whilst Sherlock did the same for his laptop and phone. Mary nipped to the bathroom, collecting the watch she'd left in there after her shower before meeting her husbands on the stairs. They slipped on shoes and coats, then went to find Jenkins who was waiting for them in a black Jaguar by the kerb.

"I'm to take you to Claridge's. I hope everyone is well."

John addressed the driver. "Yes, thank you Jenkins. It's been an interesting day."

"It's good to see that things worked out well. And hello Professor Watson. I'm Jenkins. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'll be your driver and provide security over the next few days. Keep the press and gawkers away so you can relax."

"Hello to you too Jenkins. That would be marvellous. Do you think there'll be much, press interest I mean?"

"That all depends Professor. 221B is a famous address and all the activity won't have gone unnoticed. There's bound to be some interest, but Claridge's staff are excellent at maintaining client privacy. I'm sure you'll have nothing to disturb your stay."

-0-0-0-

As promised, check in went smoothly, and they were quickly escorted to their suite. Unsurprisingly, the wardrobes contained an array of clothes for all occasions. There were VIP passes to the spa and a note from Mycroft instructing Sherlock to use the 'usual credit card' should anything additional be required, everything within the hotel being charged to the room.

As expected, they spent the evening relaxing, ordering anything they wanted from room service, and simply revelling in each other's company as the stresses of the day's events were mulled over before being allowed to slip away.

Mary was running her finger around the lip of her champagne flute, briefly lost in contemplation, when she suddenly said "What I don't understand is why it took so long for help to arrive."

"That was John. He wouldn't let me activate the button on the stairs. He needed to be sure you were unharmed. I tried to reassure him that you were obviously fine, but by the time I was forced to unlock the door that you had secured as instructed, it was too late. Mycroft's minion monitoring the video feed would have alerted the teams as soon as he saw us enter the kitchen, but the order was to await our signal. If I hadn't been able to reach the button, a pre-arranged hand signal would have sufficed. As it was, your excellent knife throwing skills, not to mention your aim with a frying pan, pre-empted any need for a signal. You should be careful Mary otherwise you'll find Mycroft recruiting you for his nefarious schemes."

"Oh no. I leave the daring do to you two. Although it will make for an interesting tale at our next girl's night. I know Sally and Noor will appreciate it, and I'm sure Molly is more than used to your escapades to be surprised. It might shock Gudrun and Alma though. They're more used to the dangers of virology. They won't expect their highly respected colleague to be taking down gun toting criminals."

John laughed. "If you're really lucky, Anthea may have it on video."

Sherlock grinned. "I was impressed. Knife throwing is a skill I did not know you possessed."

"There's no reason you should. It was while I was on my first MSF assignment in Angola. There wasn't a dart board so the camp administrator, Dr Illarion Borodin, taught myself and a colleague, Chuck Stewart, how to throw in lieu of darts, just to allay the tedium. There's only so many card games you can play before you get bored out of your head."

"Darts played with throwing knives. Intriguing. It would seem that Mr Kelvin should be grateful you're out of practice, if you were genuinely aiming for his throat."

"Yes, well, I didn't really have a chance to think about it. Even if consciously I was aiming for his throat, I doubt I could really have taken a life. It didn't hurt to scare him a bit though."

John laughed. "That's our girl."


End file.
